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1 ^' 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 



COMPANIONS 



MY SOLITUDE. 



By ARTHUR HELPS, 

II 

AUTHOR OF "friends IN COUNCIL," " REALMAH,'' 
"CASIMIR MAREMMA." 



From the Seventh London Edition. 



BOSTON: 
ROBERTS BROTHERS. 

1870. 



^^<^w 



ju'i 5 li^07 



?3r£2S of 

JOHN WILSON AND SON, 

Cambridge. 



COMPANIONS 

OF MY .'-■•'■'■;'" '".T r '"- >''X. 

SOLITUDE. ^^ 



€ 



CHAPTER I. 

TT 7HEN in the country, I live much alone ; and, 
^ ^ as I wander over downs and commons and 
through lanes with lofty hedges, many thoughts 
come into my mind. I find, too, that the same ones 
come again and again, and are spiritual companions. 
At times they insist upon being with me, and are 
resolutely intrusive. I think I will describe them, 
that so I may have more mastery over them. 
Instead of suffering them to haunt me as vague faces 
and half-fashioned resemblances, I will make them 
into distinct pictures, which I can give away, or 
hang up in my room, turning them, if I please, 
with their faces to the wall ; and in short be free to 
do what I like with them. 



6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Ellesmere will then be able to deride them at his 
pleasure ; and so they will go through the alembic of 
sarcasm ; Dunsford will have something more to 
approve, or rebuke ; Lucy something more to love, or 
to hate. Even my dogs and my trees will be the 
better for this work, as, when it is done, they will, 
perhaps, have a more disengaged attention from me. 
Faithful, steadfast creatures, both dogs and trees ; how 
easy and chai-ming is your converse with me com- 
pared with the eager, exclusive, anxious way in 
which the creations of my own brain, who at least 
should have some filial love and respect for me, insist 
upon my attention ! 

It was a thoroughly English day to-day, sombre 
and quiet, the sky coming close to the earth, and 
everything seeming to be of one color. I wandei'ed 
over the downs, not heeding much which way I 
went, and driven by one set of thoughts which of 
late have had great hold upon me. 

I think often of the hopes of the race here, of 
what is to become of our western civilization, and 
what can be made of it. Others may pursue science 
or art, and I long to do so too ; but I cannot help 
thinking of the state and fortunes of large masses of 
mankind, and hoping that thought may do some- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. *j 

thing for them. After all my cogitations, my mind 
generally returns to one thing, the education of the 
people. For want of general cultivation how greatly 
individual excellence is crippled. Of what avail, 
for example, is it for any one of us to have sur- 
mounted any social terror, or any superstition, while 
his neighbors lie sunk in it ? His conduct in refer- 
ence to them becomes a constant care and burden. 

Meditating upon general improvement, I often 
think a great deal about the climate in these parts 
of the world ; and I see that without much husbandry 
of our means and resources, it is difficult for us to 
be any thing but low barbarians. The difficulty of 
living at all in a cold, damp, destructive climate is 
great. Socrates went about with very scanty cloth- 
ing, and men praise his wisdom in caring so little 
for the goods of this life. He ate sparingly, and of 
mean food. That is not the way, I suspect, that we 
can make a philosopher here. There are people 
who would deride one for saying this, and would 
contend that it gives too much weight to worldly 
things. But I suspect they are misled by notions 
borrowed from Eastern climates. Here we must 
make prudence one of the substantial virtues. 

One thing, though, I see, and that is, that there is 
a quantity of misplaced labor, of labor which is not 



8 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

consumed in stern contest with the rugged world 
around us, in the endeavor to compel Nature to give 
us our birthright, but in fighting with " strong delu- 
sions " of all kinds ; or rather in putting up obstacles 
which we laboriously knock down again, in making 
Chinese mazes between us and objects we have 
daily need of, and where we should have only the 
shortest possible line to go. As I have said else- 
where, half the labor of the world is pure loss, — the 
work of Sisyphus rolling up stones to come down 
again inevitably. 

Law, for example, what a loss is there ; of time, 
of heart, of love, of leisure ? There are good men 
whose ininds are set upon improving the law ; but 
I doubt whether any of them are prepared to go far 
enough. Here, again, we must hope most from gen- 
eral improvement of the people. Perhaps, though, 
some one great genius will do something for us. I 
have often fancied that a man might play the part of 
Brutus in the law. He might simulate madness in 
order to ensure freedom. He might make himself 
a great lawyer, rise to eminence in the profession, 
and then turn round and say, " I am not going to 
enjoy this high seat and dignity ; but intend hence- 
forward to be an advocate for the people of this 
country against the myriad oppressions and vexa- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 9 

tions of the law. No Chancellorships or Chief-Jus- 
ticeships for me. I have only pretended to be this 
slave in order that you should not say that I am an 
untried and unpractical man, — that I do not under- 
stand your mysteries." 

This, of course, is not the dramatic vv^ay in w^hich 
such a thing would be done. But there is greatness 
enough in the world for it to be done. If no lawyer 
rises up to fill the place which my imagination has 
assigned for him, we must hope that statesmen will 
do something for us in this matter, that they will 
eventually protect us (though, hitherto, they never 
have done so) from lawyers. 

There are many things done now in the law at 
great expense by private individuals which ought 
to be done for all by officers of the State. It is as 
if each individual had to make a road for himself 
whenever he went out, instead of using the king's 
highway. 

Many of the worst things in the profession take 
place low down in it. I am not sure that I would 
not try the plan of having public notaries with very 
extensive functions, subjecting them to official con- 
trol. What exclamations about freedom we should 
hear, I dare say, if any large measure of this kind 
were proposed ; which exclamations and their con- 



lO COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

sequences have long been, in my mind, a chief ob- 
stacle to our possessing the reality of freedom. 
What difference is it whether I am a slave to my 
lawyer, or subject indirectly to more official control 
in the changing of my piX)perty? I do not know a 
meaner and sadder portion of a man's existence, or 
one more likely to be full of impatient sorrow, than 
that which he spends in waiting at the offices of 
lawyers. 

It is to be observed that all satire falls short when 
aimed against the practices in the Law. No man 
can imagine, not Swift himself, things more shame- 
ful, absurd, and grotesque than the things which 
do take place daily in the Law. Satire becomes 
merely narrative. A modern novelist depicts a man 
ruined by a legacy of a thousand pounds, and sleep- 
ing under a four-legged table because it reminded 
him of the days when he used to sleep in a four-post 
bed. This last touch about the bed is humorous, 
but the substance of the story is dry narrative 
only. 

These evils are not of yesterday, or of this country 
only ; I observe that the first Spanish colonists in 
America write home to the Government begging 
them not to allow lawyers to come to the colony. 

At the same time, we must not forget how many 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. II 

of the evils attributed solely to the proceedings of 
lawyers result from the want of knowledge of busi- 
ness in the world in general, and its inaptness for 
business, the anxiety to arrange more and for longer 
time than is wise or possible, and the occasional 
trusting of affairs to women, who in our country are 
brought up to be utterly incompetent to the manage- 
ment of affairs. Still, with all these allowances, and 
taking care to admit, as we must, if we have any 
fairness, that notwithstanding the element of chican- 
ery and perverse small-mindedness in which they 
are involved, there are many admirable and very 
high-minded men to be found in all grades of the 
law (perhaps a more curious instance of the power 
of the human being to maintain its structure unim- 
paired in the midst of a hostile element, than that a 
man should be able to abide in a heated oven) — 
admitting all these extenuating circumstances, we 
must nevertheless declare, as I set out by saying, that 
Law affords a notable example of loss of time, of 
heart, of love, of leisure.* 

* Many of the adjuncts and circumstances of the Law are 
calculated to maintain it as a mystery : I allude to the un- 
couth form and size of deeds, the antiquated words, the 
unusual kind of handwriting. Physicians' prescriptions 
may have a better effect for being expressed mysteriously, 
but legal matteis cannot surely be made too clear, eveu in 
the merest minutiae. 



12 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

Well, then, as another instance of misplaced labor, 
I suppose we must take a good deal of what goes on 
in schools and colleges, and, indeed, in parliaments 
and other assemblages of men, not to speak of the 
wider waste of means and labor which prevails in 
all physical works, — such as buildings, furniture, 
decorations ; and not merely waste but obstruction, 
so that if there were a good angel attendant on the 
human race, with power to act on earth, it would 
destroy as fast as made a considerable portion of 
men's productions, as the kindest thing which could 
be done for man and the best instruction for him. 

The truth is, we must considerably address our- 
selves to cope with Nature. Here again, too, we 
come to the want of more extended and general cul- 
tivation, for otherwise we cannot fully enjoy or profit 
by scientific discovery. At present a man in a civil- 
ized country is surrounded by things which are 
greater than he is ; he does not understand them, 
cannot regulate them, cannot mend them. 

This ignorance proceeds in some respects from 
division of labor. A man knows how to make a 
pin's head admirably, but is afraid to handle or give 
an opinion upon things which he has not daily knowl- 
edge of. This applies not only to physical things, 
but to law, church, state, and the arts and sciences 
generally. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 13 

After all, the advancement of the world depends 
upon the use of small balances of advantage over 
disadvantage ; for there is compensation every whei'e 
and in every thing. No one discovery resuscitates 
the vs^orld ; certainly no physical one. Each new 
good thought, or word, or deed, brings its shadow 
with it ; and, as I have just said, it is upon the small 
balances of gain that we get on at all. Often, too, 
this occurs indirectly, as when moral gains give 
physical gains, and these again give room for further 
moral and intellectual culture. 

Frequently it seems as if the faculties of man 
were not quite adequate as yet to his situation. 
This is perhaps more to be seen in contemplating 
individuals, than in looking at mankind in general. 
The individual seems the sport of circumstance. 
When Napoleon invaded Russia (the proximate 
cause of his downfall), though doubtless there were 
very adverse and unfortunate circumstances attend- 
ant upon that invasion, yet, upon the whole, it gave 
a good opportunity for working out the errors of 
the man's mind and system. The circumstances 
were not unfair, as we may say, against him. Most 
prosperous men, perhaps I should say most men, 
have in the course of their lives their campaign in 
Russia, — when they strain their fortune to the utter- 



14 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

most, and often it breaks under them. I did not 
mean any thing like this when I said that the indi- 
vidual seems the sport of circumstance. Neither 
did I mean that small continuous faults and mis- 
doings have considerable effect upon a man, such as 
the errors and vices of youth, which are silently put 
down to a man from day to day, like his reckoning 
at an inn. But I alluded to those very unfortunate 
concurrences of circumstances, which most men's 
lives will tell them of, where a man, from some 
small error or omission, from some light carelessness, 
or over-trust, in thoughtless innocence or inexperi- 
ence, gets entangled in a web of adverse circum- 
stances, which will be company for him on sleepless 
nights and anxious days throughout a large part of 
his" life. Were success in life (morally or physically) 
the main object here, it certainly would seem as if 
■ a little more faculty in man were sadly needed. A 
similar thing occurs often to the body, when a man, 
from some small mischance or oversight, lays the 
beginning of a disease which shall depress and 
enfeeble him while he sojourns upon earth. And it 
seems, when he looks back, as if such a little thing 
would have saved him ; if he had not crossed over 
the road, if he had not gone to see his friend on 
that particular day, if the dust had not been so 



COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 1 5 

unpleasant on that occasion, the whole course of his 
life would have been different. Living, as we do, 
in the midst of stern gigantic laws, which crush 
every thing down that comes in their way, which 
know no excuses, admit of no small errors, never 
send a man back to learn his lesson and try him 
again, but are as inexorable as Fate, — living, I say, 
with such powers above us (unseen, too, for the 
most part), it does seem as if the faculties of man 
were hardly as yet adequate to his situation here. 

Such considerations as the above tend to charity 
and humility; and they point also to the existence 
of a future state- 
As regards charity, for example, a man might 
extend to others the ineffable tenderness which he 
has for some of his own sins and errors, because he 
knows the whole history of them ; and though, 
taken at a particular point, they appear very large 
and very black, he knew them in their early days 
when they were play-fellows instead of tyrant 
demons. There are others which he cannot so well 
smooth over, because he knows that in their case 
inward proclivity coincided with outward tempta- 
tion ; and, if he is a just man, he is well aware that 
if he had not erred here he would have erred there ; 



1 6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

that experience, even at famine price, was necessary 
for him in those matters. But, in considering the 
misdoings and misfortunes of others, he may as well 
begin, at least, by thinking that they are of the class 
which he has found from his own experience to 
contain a larger amount of what we call ill-fortune 
than of any thing like evil disposition. For time 
and chance, says the Preacher, happen to all men. 

Thus I thought in my walk this dull and dreary 
afternoon, till the rising of the moon and the return 
from school of the childi'en with their satchels com- 
ing over the down warned me, too, that it was time 
to retuj-n home ; and so, trying not to think any 
more of these things, I looked at the bare beech- 
trees, still beautiful, and the dull sheep-ponds scat- 
tered here and there, and thought that the country 
even in winter and in these northern regions, like a 
great man in adversity and just disgrace, was still 
to be looked at with hopeful tenderness, even if, in 
the man's case, there must also be somewhat of 
respectful condemnation. As I neared home I com- 
forted myself, too, by thinking that the inhabitants 
of sunnier climes do not know how winning and 
joyful is the look of the chimney-tops of our homes 
in the midst of what to them would seem most des- 
olate and dreary. 



CHAPTER II. 

T SUPPOSE it has happened to most men who 
observe their thoughts at all, to notice how some 
expression retui-ns again and again in the course of 
their meditations, or, indeed, of their business, form- 
ing as it were a refrain to all they think, or do, for 
any given day. Sometimes, too, this refrain has no 
particular concern with the thought or business of 
the day ; but seems as if it belonged to some under- 
current of thought and feeling. This, at least, is 
what I experienced to-day myself, being haunted by 
a bit of old Spanish poetry, which obtruded itself, 
sometimes inopportunely, sometimes not so, in the 
midst of all my work or play. The words were 
these : — 

" Quan presto se va el placer. 

Como despues de acordado 
Da dolor; 

Como, al nuestro parecer, 

Qualquiera tiempo pasado 
Fu^ mejor." 

2 



l8 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

How quickly passes pleasure awaji 
How after being granted 

It gives pain ; 
How in our opinion 
Any past time 

Was better (than that we passed in pleasure). 

It was not that I agreed with the sentiment, ex- 
cept as applied to vicious pleasure, being rather of 
Sydney Smith's mind, that the remembrance of past 
pleasure is present pleasure ; but I suppose the 
words chitned in with reflections on the past which 
formed the under-current of my thoughts, as I went 
through the wood of beeches which bounded my 
walk to-day. 

A critique had just been sent me of some literary 
production, in which the reviewer was very gracious 
in noticing the calmness and moderation of the 
author. " Ah, my friend," thought I to myself, 
" how differently you would write if you did but 
know the man as I do, and were aware what a 
fierce fellow he is with all his outward smoothness, 
hardly ruling at times thoughts which are any thing 
but calm and moderate, yet struggling to be just, 
and knowing that violence is always lost ! " 

From that I went on to consider how intense is 
the loneliness for the most part of any man who 
endeavors to think, — like the Nile wandering on 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 19 

through a desert country, with no tributary streams 

to cheer and aid it, and to be lost in sympathy with 

its main current. In politics, for example, such a 

man will have too affectionate a regard for the 

people to be a democrat ; he would as soon leave 

his own children without guidance ; and, on the 

other hand, he will have too great a regai'd for 

merit and fitness to be an aristocrat. He will find 

no one plank to walk up and down consistently ; 

and will be always looking beyond measures which 

satisfy other men ; and seeing, perhaps, that as 

regards politics themselves, greater things are to be 

done out of them than in them. 

I was silent in thought for a moment, and then 

my refrain came back again — 

"Qi:alquiera tiempo pasado 
Fu^ mejor." 

And in a moment I went back, not to the pleasures, 
but to the ambitious hopes and projects of youth. 
And when a man does reflect upon the ambitions 
which are as characteristic of that period of life as 
reckless courage or elastic step, and finds that at 
each stage of his journey since, some hope has 
dropped oft" as too burdensome, or too romantic, till 
at last it is enough for him only to cai'ry himself 
at all upright in this troublesome world, — what 



20 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

thoughts come back vipon him ! How he meditates 
upon his own errors and shortcomings, and sees 
that he has had not only the hardness, oiliness, 
and imperturbability of the world to contend with, 
but that he himself has generally been his worst 
antagonist. 

In this mood, I might have thrown myself upon 
the mound under a green beech-tree that was near, 
the king of the woods, and uttered many lamenta- 
tions ; but instead of doing any thing of the kind, I 
walked sedately by it ; for, as we go on in life, we 
find we cannot afford excitement, and we learn to 
be parsimonious in our emotions. Again I mut- 
tered, 

" Qiialquiera tiempo pasado 
Fue mejor." 

And I threw forward these words into the future, 
as if I were already blaming any tendency to un- 
necessary emotion. 

I entered now into another vein of thought, con- 
sidering that kind Nature would not allow a man 
to be so very wise, nor for the sake of any good he 
might do to others, permit him to forfeit the benefit 
he must derive from his own errors, failures, and 
shortcomings. You may mean well, she says, and 
you might expect that I should give you any ex- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 21 

traordinary furtherance, and not suffer you to be 
plagued with drawbacks and errors of your own, 
that so you might do your work undisturbed : but 
I love you too well for that. I sacrifice no one child 
for the benefit of the rest. You all must learn 
humility. 

I felt the truth of these words, and thereupon 
gave myself up to more cheerful thoughts. How 
much cheerfulness there is, by the way, in humility ! 
I listened to the cuckoo in the woods, hearing his 
tiresome but welcome noise for the first time in the 
year, and I looked out for the wild flowers that were 
just beginning to show themselves, and thought 
that, from the names of flowers, it is evident that, 
in former days, poets and scholars must have lived 
in the countiy and looked well at Nature. Else 
how came all these picturesque and poetical names, 
" Love in idleness," " Venus's looking-glass," and 
such like } 

But as the shades of evening came on in the 
wood, my thoughts went away from these simple 
topics ; the refrain, too, 

" Qiian presto se va el placer," 

sounded in my ears again ; and I passed on to 
meditations of like color to those in the former part 



22 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITDDK 

of my walk. In addition to the othei" hindrances I 
alhided to before, this also must come home to the 
mind of many a man of the present generation : 
how he is to discern, much more to teach, even in 
small things, without having clear views, or distinct 
convictions, upon some of the greatest matters, — , 
upon religious questions for instance? And yet I 
suppose it must be tried. Even a man of Goethe's 
immense industry and great intellectual resources, 
feared to throw himself upon the sea of biblical 
criticism. But, at the same time, how poor, timid, 
and tentative must be all discourse built upon in- 
ferior motives ! Ah, if we could but discern what 
is the right way and the highest way ! 

These doubts which beset men upon many of the 
greatest matters, are the direct result of the lies and 
falsification of our predecessors. Sometimes when 
we look at the frightful errors which metaphorical 
expressions may have introduced, I do not wonder 
that Plato spoke in the hardest manner of Poets. 
But man cannot narrate without metaphors, so 
much more does he see in every transaction than 
the bare circumstances. 

When I was at Milan and saw the glory of that 
town, the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci, I 
could not help thinking, as my way is, many things 



COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 23 

not, perhaps, very closely connected with that grand 
work, but which it suggested to my mind. At 
first you may be disappointed in finding the figures 
so much faded, but soon, with patient looking, 
much comes into view ; and after marvelling at the 
inexpressible beauty which still remains, you find 
to your astonishment that no picture, no print, per- 
haps no description, has adequately represented 
what you can still trace in this work. Not only 
has it not been represented, but it has been utterly 
misrepresented. The copyist thought he could tell 
the story better than the painter, and where the 
outlines are dim, was not content to leave them so, 
but must insert something of his own which is 
clearly wrong. This, I thought, is the way of most 
translation, and I might add, of most portrait paint- 
ing and nearly all criticism. And it occurred to 
me that the written history of the world was very 
like the prints of this fresco ; namely, a clear ac- 
count, a good deal of it utterly wrong, of what at 
fii'st hand is considerably obliterated, and which, 
except in minds of the highest powers of imagina- 
tion, to be a clear conception can hardly be a just 
one. 

And then, caiTying my application still further to 
the most important of all histories, I thought how 



24 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

the simple majesty of the original transaction had 
probably suffered a like misconception, from the 
fading of the material narrative, and still more from 
the weak inventions of those w^ho could not repre- 
sent accurately, and were impatient of any dimness 
(to their eyes) in the divine original. 

I often fancy how I should like to direct the in- 
tellectual efforts of men ; and if I had the power, 
how frequently I should direct them to those great 
subjects in metaphysics and theology which now 
men shun. 

What patient labor and what intellectual power 
are often bestowed in coming to a decision on any 
cause which involves much worldly property. 
Might there not be some great hearing of any of 
the intellectual and spiritual difficulties which beset 
the paths of all thoughtful men in the present age ? 

Church questions, for example, seem to require 
a vast investigation. As it is, a book or pamphlet 
is put forward on one side, then another on the 
other side, and somehow the opposing facts and 
arguments seldom come into each othei-'s presence. 
And thus truth sustains great loss. 

My own opinion is, if I can venture to say that I 
have an opinion, that what we ought to seek for is 
a church of the utmost width of doctrine, and with 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 2$ 

the most beautiful expression that can be devised 
for tliat doctrine, — tlie most beautiful expression, I 
mean, in words, in deeds, in sculpture, and in 
sacred song ; which should have a simple, easy 
grandeur in its proceedings that should please the 
elevated and poetical mind, charm the poor, and 
yet not lie open to just cavilling on the part of those 
somewhat hard, intellectual worshippers who must 
have a reason for every thing ; which should have 
vitality and growth in it ; and which should attract 
and not repel those who love truth better than any 
creature. 

Pondering these things in the silence of the downs, 
I at last neared home ; and found that the result of 
all my thoughts was that any would-be teacher must 
be contented and humble, or try to be so, in his ef- 
forts of any kind ; and that if the great questions can 
hardly be determined by man (divided too as he is 
from his brother in all ways) he must still try and 
do what he can on lower levels, hoping ever for more 
insight, and looking forward to the knowledge which 
may be gained by death. 



CHAPTER III. 

' I ^0-DAY, as the weather was cold and boister- 
ous, I could only walk under shelter of the yew 
hedge in my garden, which some gracious predeces- 
sor (all honor to him !) planted to keep oft' the dire 
north-west winds, and which, I fear, unless he was 
a very hardy plant himself, he did not live long 
enough to profit much by. Being so near home, my 
thoughts naturally took a domestic turn ; and I vexed 
myself by thinking that I had received no letter ffom 
my little boy. This was owing to the new post-office 
regulations, which did not allow letters to go out from 
country places, or be delivered at such places, on 
a Sunday. Oh those Borgias, said I to myself, how 
much we have to blame them for ! To be sure, I 
know pretty well what the letter would be. 

" I hope you are well papa and I send you my love 
and I have got a kite and Uncle George's dog is very 
fierce. His name is Nero which was a Roman em- 
peror nearly quite white only he has got two black 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 2'J 

spots just over his nose And I send my love to mam- 
ma and the children and I am your own little boy 
and affectionate son, 

" Leonard Milverton." 

Not a very important, certainly not a very artistic, 
production this letter, but still it has its interest for 
the foolish patei'nal mind, and I should like to have 
received it to-day. It is greatly owning to those 
Borgias that I have not received this letter. Most 
of my neighbors imagine that their little petitions 
were the cause of these post-office regulations ; but 
I beg to go somewhat further back, and I come to 
Pope Alexander the Sixth, and lay a great deal of 
blame on him. The pendulous folly of mankind 
oscillates as far in this direction as it has come from 
that ; and an absurd Puritan is only a correlative to 
a wicked Pope. 

From such reflections, I fell to considering Puri- 
tanism generally, and I am afi'aid I came to a differ- 
ent conclusion from that which would have been 
popular at any of the late public meetings ; but then 
I console myself by an aphorism of Ellesmere's, who 
is wont to remark, " How exactly proportioned to a 
man's ignorance of the subject is the noise he makes 
about it at a public meeting." Knowledge brings 



28 COMPANIONS OF 31 T SOLITUDE. 

doubts and exceptions and limitations which, though 
occasionally some aids to truth, are all hindrances 
to vigorous statement. 

But to go back to what I thought about Puritan- 
ism ; for I endeavored to methodize my thoughts, 
and the following is the course they took. 

What are the objects of life, as far as regards this 
world ? Its first wants, I answer, namely, food and 
raiment. What besides.? Marrying and the rearing 
of children ; and, in general, the cultivation of the 
affections. So far Puritans would agree with us. 

But suppose all these things to be tempered with 
gayety and festivity : what element of wickedness has 
necessm'ily entered } None that I can perceive. Self- 
indulgence takes many forms ; and we should bear 
in mind that there may be a sullen sensuality as well 
as a gay one. 

But the truth is, there is a secret belief amongst 
some men that God is displeased with man's happi- 
ness ; and in consequence they slink about creation, 
ashamed and afraid to enjoy any thing. 

They answer, we do not object to rational pleas- 
ures. 

But who, my good people, shall exactly define 
rational pleasures .'' You are pleased with a flower ; 
to cultivate flowers is what you call a rational pleas- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 29 

ure : there are people, however, to whom a flower is 
somewhat insipid, but they perhaps dote upon music, 
which, however, is unfortunately not one of your 
rational pleasures, — chiefly, as I believe, because it 
is mainly a social one. Why is there any thing nec- 
essarily wrong in social pleasures? Certainly some 
of the most dangerous vices, such as pride, are found 
to flourish in solitude with more vigor than in society ; 
and a man may be deadly avaricious who has never 
even gone out to a tea-party. 

Once I happened to overhear a dialogue some- 
what similar to that which Charles Lamb, perhaps, 
only feigned to hear. I was travelling in a railway- 
carriage with a most precise looking, formal person, 
the Arch-Quaker, if there be such a person. His 
countenance was very noble, or had been so, before 
it was frozen up. He said nothing ; I felt a great 
respect for him. At last his mouth opened. I lis- 
tened with attention ; I had hitherto lived with 
foolish, gad-about, dinner-eating, dancing people ; 
now I was going to hear the words of retired wisdom ; 
when he thus addressed his young daughter sitting 
opposite, " Hast thee heard how Southamptons went 
lately } " (in those days South-western Railway 
shares were called Southamptons) ; and she replied 
with like gravity, giving him some information that 



30 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

she had picked up about Southamptons yesterday 
evening. 

I leant back rather sickened as I thought what 
was probably the daily talk and the daily thoughts 
in that family, from which I conjectured all amuse- 
ment was banished save that connected with intense 
money getting. 

Well, but, exclaims the advocate of Puritanism, 
I do not admit that my clients, on abjuring the 
pleasures of this world, fall into pride, or sullen 
sensuality, or intense money getting. They only 
secure to themselves more time for woi"ks of charity 
and for the love of God. 

You are an adroit advocate, and are careful, by 
not pushing your case too far, to give me the least 
possible room for reply. They secure to themselves 
more time for these good works you say. Do they 
do them.? But the truth is, in order to meet your 
remark and to extract the good there is in it, I must 
begin by saying that Puritanism, as far as it is an 
abnegation of self, is good, or may be so. But this 
is most surely the case, when it turns its sufferings 
and privations to utility. It has always appeared 
to me that there is so much to be done in this world, 
that all self-inflicted sufterinof which cannot be 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 31 

turned to good account for others, is a loss, — a loss, 
if you may so express it, to the spiritual world. 

The Puritanism which I object to is that which 
avoids some pleasure, and exhausts in injurious 
comment and attack upon other people any leisure 
and force of mind which it may have gained by its 
abstinence from the pleasure. 

I can understand and sympathize with the man 
who says, " I enjoy festivity, but I cannot go to the 
feast I am bidden to, to-night, for there are sick 
people who must be first attended to." But I do 
not love the man who stays away from the feast and 
employs his leisure in delivering a sour discourse on 
the wickedness of the others who are invited to the 
feast, and who go to it. 

Moreover, this censoriousness is not only a sin, 
but the inventor of many sins. Indeed the manu- 
facture of sins is so easy a manufacture, that I am 
convinced man could readily be persuaded that it 
was wicked to use the left leg as much as the right ; 
whole congregations would only permit themselves 
to hop ; and, what is more to our present point, 
would consider that when they walked in the ordi- 
nary fashion they were committing a deadly sin. 
Now, I should not think that the man who were to 
invent this sin would be a benefactor to the human 
race. 



32 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

You often hear in a town, or village, a bit of do- 
mestic history, which seems at first to militate 
against what I have been saying, but is in reality 
very consistent with it. The story is of some poor 
man, and is apt to run thus : He began to frequent 
the ale-house ; he sought out amusements ; there 
was a neighboring fair where he first showed his 
quarrelsome disposition ; then came worse things ; 
and now here he is in prison. Yes, I should reply, 
he frequented, with a stealthy shame, those places 
which you, who would ignore all amusement, have 
suffei'ed to be most coarse and demoralizing. All 
along he had an exaggerated notion of the blame 
that he was justly liable to from his first steps in the 
downward path ; the truth unfortunately is, that you 
go a long way to make a small error into a sin, when 
you miscall it so. I would not, therefore, have a 
clergyman talk of the ale-house as if it were the pit 
of Acheron. On the contrary, I would have him 
acknowledge that, considering the warmth and 
cheerfulness to be found in the sanded parlor of the 
village inn, it is very natural that men should be apt 
to frequent it. I would have him, however, go on to 
show what frequenting the ale-house mostly leads 
to, and how the laborer's home might be made to 
rival the ale-house ; and I would have him help to 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 33 

make it so, or, in some way, to provide some sub- 
stitute for the ale-house. 

The evils of competition ai'e very considerable, 
and many people in these times hold up competition 
as the great monster evil of the age. I do not know 
how that may be ; but I am sure that the competition 
there is in the way of puritanical demonstration is 
very injurious to sincerity. This competition is the 
child of fear. A. is afraid that his neighbor B. will 
not think well of him, because he (A.) does or per- 
mits something which C, another neighbor, will not 
allow in his house. Surely this is little else than 
mere man-worship. It puts one in mind of the 
story of that congregation of the Church of England, 
who begged their clergyman to give them longer 
sermons, — not that they wei'e fond of long dis- 
courses, — but that they might not alwa3'S be out of 
church before some neighboring congregation of 
Wesleyans or Independents. 

Returning to the imaginary advocate for Puritan- 
ism who said that it secured more time for works of 
charity and for the love of God. 

I do not know whether other people's observation 

will tally with mine ; but, as far as I have obsei'ved, 

it appears to me that charity requires the sternest 

labor and the most anxious thought ; that, in short, 

3 



34 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

it is one of the most difficult things in the world, and 
is not altogether a matter for leisure hours. This re- 
mark applies to the more serious functions of charity. 
But, we must remember, that the whole of charity is 
not comprised in carrying about gifts to one another, 
or, to speak more generally, in remedying the mate- 
rial evils suffered by those around us, else life would 
indeed be a dreary affair ; but there are exquisite 
little charities to be performed in reference to social 
pleasures. 

Then, as to the love of God, I do not venture to 
say much upon so solemn a theme ; but it does oc- 
cur to me that we should talk and think very humbly 
about our capacity in matters so much above us. At 
any rate, I do not see why the love of God should 
withdraw us largely from our fellow-man. That love 
we believe was greatest in Him who graced with 
His presence the marriage feast at Cana in Galilee ; 
who was never known to shun or ignore the exist- 
ence of the vicious ; and to whom, more than to all 
other teachers, the hypocrite seems to have been 
particularly odious. 

But there is another very important consideration 
to be weighed by those who are fearful of encourag- 
ing amusements, especially amongst their poorer 
brethren. What are the generality of people to do, or 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 35 

to think of, for a considerable portion of each clay, if 
they are not allowed to busy themselves with some 
form of recreation ? Here is this infinite creature, 
man, who looks before and after, whose swiftness of 
thought is such, even among the dullest of the species, 
as would perhaps astonish the brightest, who are apt 
to imagine that none think but themselves ; and you 
fancy that he can be quite contented with providing 
warmth and food for himself and those he has to love 
and cherish. Food and warmth ! Content with that ! 
Not he : and we should greatly despise him if he 
could be. Why is it that in all ages small towns and 
remote villages have fostered little malignities of all 
kinds.'' The true answer is, that people will back- 
bite one another to any extent rather than not be 
amused. Nay, so strong is this desire for something 
to go on that may break the monotony of life, that 
people, not otherwise ill-natured, are pleased with 
the misfortune of their neighbors, solely because it 
gives something to think of, something to talk about. 
They imagine how the principal actors and sufferers 
concerned in the misfortune will bear it ; what they 
will do ; how they will look ; and so the dull by- 
stander forms a sort of drama for himself. He would, 
perhaps, be told that it is wicked for him to go to 
such an entertainment : he makes one out for- him- 
self, not always innocently. 



36 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

You hear clergymen in country parishes denounc- 
ing the ill-nature of their parishioners : it is in vain ; 
the better sort of men try to act up to what they are 
told, but really it is so dull in the parish that a bit of 
scandal is welcome to the heart. These poor people 
have nothing to think about ; nature shows them 
comparatively little, for art and science have not 
taught them to look behind the scenes, or even at the 
scenes ; literature they know nothing of; they can- 
not have gossip about the men of the past (which is 
the most innocent kind of gossip), in other words, 
read and discuss history ; they have no delicate handi- 
work to amuse them ; in short, talk they must, and 
talk they will, about their neighbors, whose goings 
on are a perpetual puppet-show to them. 

But, to speak more gravely, man, even the most 
sluggish-minded man, craves amusement of some 
kind ; and his wiser and more powerful brethi"en 
will show their wisdom, or their want of it, in the 
amusements they contrive for him. 

We need not be afraid that in England any art or 
innocent amusement will be cultivated too much. 
The genius of the people, though kindly, is severe. 
And that is why there is so much less danger of their 
being injured, if any one is, by recreation. Cyrus 
kept the Lydians tame, we are told, by allowing them 
to cultivate music ; the Greeks were perhaps pre- 

« 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 37 

vented from becoming dominant by a cultivation of 
many arts ; but the Anglo-Saxons, like the Romans, 
can afford to cultivate art and recreations of all kinds. 
Such pursuits will not tame them too much. To 
contend, occasionally, against the bent of the genius, 
or the circumstances of a people, is one of the great 
arts of statesmanship. The same thing which is to be 
dreaded in one place is to be cultivated in another ; 
here a poison, there an antidote. 

The abo\e is what I thought in reference to Puri- 
tanism during my walk this evening : then, by a 
not uneasy diversion of mind, I turned to another 
« branch of small persecutions, — small do I call them .'' 
perhaps they are the greatest that are endured, cer- 
tainly the most vexatious. I mean all that is per- 
petuated by the tyranny of the weak. 

This is a most fertile subject, and has been nearly 
neglected. Weak is a relative term : whenever two 
people meet, one is comparatively weak and the 
other strong ; the relation between them is often 
supposed to imply this. Taking society in general, 
there is a certain weakness of the kind I mean, 
attributable to the sick, the spoilt, the ill-tempered, 
the unfortunate, the aged, women, and the clergy. 
Now I venture to say, there is no observant man of 
the world who has lived to the age of thirty who 
has not seen numerous instances of severe tyranny 
• 



38 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

exercised by persons belonging to one or other of 
these classes ; and which tyranny has been estab- 
lished, continued, and endured, solely by reason of 
the weakness, real or supposed, of the persons ex- 
ercising it. Talking once with a thoughtful man 
on this subject, he remarked to me, that, of course, 
the generous suffered much from the tyranny I was 
speaking of, as the strength of it was drawn from 
their strength. It might be compared to an evil 
government of a rich people, in which their riches 
furnished forth abundant armies wherewith to op- 
press the subject. 

In quiet times this tyranny is very great. I have 
often thought whether it was not one very consider- 
able compensation for rude hard times, or times of 
dire alarm, that domestic tyranny was then probably 
less severe : and among the various forms of domes- 
tic tyi'anny, none occupies a more distinguished 
place than this of the tyranny of the weak over the 
strong. 

If you come to analyze it, it is a tyranny exercised 
by playing upon the good-nature, the fear of respon- 
sibility, the dread of acting selfishly, the horror of 
giving pain, prevalent among good and kind people. 
They often know that it is a tremendous tyranny 
they are suffei-ing under, and they do not feel it the 
less because they are consenting parties. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 39 

Meditating sometimes upon the results of this 
tyranny, I have thought to myself, what is to stop 
it? In a state of further developed Christianity, 
unless, indeed, it were equally developed in all 
minds, there may be only more room for this tyr- 
anny. And then this strange, but perhaps just 
idea came into my mind, that this tyranny would 
fall away in a state of clearer knowledge such as 
might accompany another state of being ; for then, 
the secrets of men's hearts not being profoundly 
concealed by silence, or by speech, it would be 
seen what the sufferers thought of these t}'rannous 
proceedings ; and the tyrants would shrink back, 
abashed at the enormity of their requisitions, made 
visible in the clear mirror of another's mind. 

A common form of this tyranny is where the t}'- 
rant uses a name of great potency, such as that of 
some relationshijD, and having performed few or 
none of the duties, exacts from the other side a most 
oppressive tribute, — oppressive, even if the duties 
had been performed. 

There is one reason for putting a limit to the sub- 
serviency of the strong to the weak, which reason, 
if fully developed, might do more at times to pro- 
tect the strong from the weak than any thing I 
know. Surely the most foolish strong person must 



40 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

occasionally have glimpses that he or she cannot 
sacrifice himself or herself alone : that, in dealing 
with another person, you are in some measure rep- 
resenting the outer world ; and ought (to use an 
official phrase) to govern yourself accordingly. We 
see this in managing children : and the most weakly 
indulgent people find that they must make a stop 
somewhere ; with some perception, it is to be hoped, 
that the world will not go on dealing with the chil- 
dren as they (the indulgent persons) are doing ; 
and, therefore, that they are preparing mischief and 
discomfort on one side or the other for parties who 
are necessarily to be brought in contact. 

The soft mud carried away by the encroaching 
sea cannot say, — " I, the soft mud, am to be the 
only victim to this element ; and after I am gone it 
will no more encroach." No, it means to devour 
the whole land if it can. 

Ah, thought I to myself, how important are such 
considerations as those I have had to-day, if we 
could but rightly direct them ; how much of the 
health and wealth of the -^^^orld depend upon them ! 
Even in those periods when " laws or kings" could 
do predominant good or predominant ill, the mis- 
eries of private life perhaps outweighed the lest ; 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 41 

but now, as civilization advances, the tendency is 
to some little amelioration of great political dan- 
gers ; while, at the same time, from more refine- 
ment, more intricacy of affairs, more nervous devel- 
opment, more pretence of goodness, more resolve 
to have every thing quite neat and smooth and 
safe, the miseries which the generality of men make 
for themselves do not tend to decrease, unless kept 
down by a continual growth of wise and good 
thoughts and just habits of mind. 

When we talk of 

"The ills that laws or kings can cause or cure," 
our thoughts refer only to the functions of direct and 
open government ; but the laws which regulate the 
intercourse of society, public opinion, and, in short, 
that almost impalpable code of thought and action 
which grows up in a very easy fashion between man 
and man, and is clothed with none of the ordinary 
di'ess of power, may yet be the subtlest and often 
the sternest despotism. 

It is a strange fancy of mine, but I cannot help 
wishing we could " move for returns," as their phrase 
is in Parliament, of the suffering caused in any one 
day, or other period of time, throughout the world, 
to be arranged under certain heads ; and we should 
then see what the world has occasion to fear most. 



42 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

What a large amount would come under the heads 
of vinreasonable fear of others, of miserable quarrels 
amongst relations upon infinitesimally small sub- 
jects, of imaginary slights, of undue cares, of false 
shames, of absolute misunderstandings, of vumeces- 
sary pains to maintain credit or reputation, of vex- 
ation that we cannot make others of the same mind 
with ourselves ! What a wonderful thing it would 
be to see set down in figures, as it were, how ingen- 
ious we are in plaguing one another ! My own pri- 
vate opinion is, that the discomfoi^t caused by 
injudicious dress, worn entirely in deference, as it 
has before been remarked, to the most foolish of 
mankind, in fact to the tyrannous majority, would 
outweigh many an evil that sounds, very big. 

Tested by these perfect returns, which I imagine 
might be made by the angelic world, if they regard 
human affairs, perhaps our every-day shaving, severe 
shirt collars, and other ridiculous garments, are 
equivalent to a great European war once in seven 
years ; and we should find that women's stays did 
about as inuch harm, t. e., caused as much suffering, 
as an occasional pestilence, — say, for instance, the 
cholera. We should find perhaps that the vexations 
arising from the income-tax were nearly equal to 
those caused amongst the same class of suff^erers by 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 43 

^ the ill-natured things men fancy have been said be- 
hind their backs ; and perhaps the whole burden 
and vexation resulting from the aggregate of the 
respective national debts of that unthrifty family, 
the European race, — the whole burden and vexa- 
tion, I say, do not come up to the aggregate of 
annoyances inflicted in each locality by the one ill- 
natured person who generally infests each little 
village, parish, house, or community. 

There is no knowing what strange comparisons 
and discoveries I should in my fancy have been led 
to, — perhaps that the love, said to be inherent in 
the softer sex, of having the last word, causes as 
much mischief as all the tornadoes of the Tropics ; 
or that the vexation inflicted by servants on their 
masters by assuring them that such and such duties 
do not belong to their place, is equivalent to all the 
suflerings that have been caused by mad dogs since 
the world began. But my meditations were sud- 
denly interrupted and put to flight by a noise, which, 
in describing afterwards in somewhat high-flown 
terms, I said caused a dismay like that which would 
have been felt if, neglectful of the proper periods in 
history, the Huns, the Vandals, and the Visigoths, 
in fact the unruly population of the world, had 
combined together and rushed down upon some 
quiet, orderly cathedral town. 



44 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

In short, the children of my neighbors returning 
from school had dashed into my field, their main 
desire being to behold an arranged heap of stones 
and brick-bats, which, after being diligently informed 
of the fact several times by my son Leonard, I had 
learnt was a house he had lately built. 

There is a sort of freemasonry among children ; 
for these knew at once that this heap of stones was 
a house, and danced round it with delight as a great 
work of art. Now, do you suppose, to come back to 
the original subject of my meditations to-day, that 
the grown-up child does not want amusement, when 
you see how greedy children are of it? Do not 
imagine we grow out of that; we disguise ourselves 
by various solemnities ; but we have none of us lost 
the child-nature yet. 

I was glad to see how merry the children could 
be, though looking so blue and cold, and still more 
pleased to find that my presence did not scare them 
away, and that they have no grown-up feeling as 
yet about ti'espassing : I fled, however, from the 
noise into more quiet quarters, and broke up the 
train of reflections of which I now give these out- 
lines, hoping they may be of use to some one. 



CHAPTER IV. 

"A /rUCH retrospect is not a very safe or a very 
wise thing : still thei'e are times when a man 
may do well to look back upon his past life, and 
endeavor to take a comprehensive view of it. And 
whether such retrospect is wise or not, it cannot be 
avoided, as our reveries must sometimes turn upon 
that one life, our own, respecting which we have a 
great number of facts very interesting to us, and 
thoroughly within our ken. The process is curiously 
different from that pursued by Alnaschar in the 
Arabian Nights, who with an imaginary spurn, 
alas, too well interpreted by a real gesture, disposed 
at once of all his splendid fortunes gained in reverie. 
In this progress of retrospection many find that the 
spurn is real as well as the fatal gesture which real- 
ized it, only both have been administered by the rude 
world instead of by themselves ; the fragments of 
their broken pottery lie around them ; and, going 
back to fond memories of the past, they have to 
reconstruct the original reverie, — the dream of their 
youth — the proud purpose of their manhood — how 
fulfilled ! 



46 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Walking up and down amidst the young fir-trees 
in the little plantation to the north-east of the garden, 
and, occasionally, with all the interest of a young 
planter, stopping in front of a particular tree, and 
inspecting this year's growth, I got into such a train 
of retrospect as I have just spoken of; and from 
that, by a process which will be visible to the 
reader, was soon led into thoughts about the future. 

I pictured to myself a descendant of mine, a man 
of dilapidated fortune, but still owning this house 
and garden. The few adjoining fields he will long 
ago have parted with. But he loves the place, hav- 
ing been brought up here by his sad, gentle mother, 
and having lived here with his young sister, then a 
rapturous imaginative girl, his companion and 
delight. Through the smallness of their fortune, 
and consequently the narrow circle of their acquaint- 
ances, she will have married a man totally unfit for 
her ; the romance of her nature has turned some- 
what sour ; and, though occasionally high-minded, 
she is very peevish now, and is no longer the com- 
panion that she was to her brother. He just remem- 
bers his father pacing with disturbed step under 
these trees which I am now walking about. He 
recollects before his father's death, how eagerly the 
fond wife used to waylay and open large packets, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 47 

which she would not always bring to the dying 
man's bed. He now knows them to have been law 
papers ; and when he thinks of these things, he 
vitters harsh words about the iniquity of the law in 
England ; and says something about law growing 
in upon a fallen estate like fungus upon old and 
failing wood. 

These things are now long past : they occurred in 
his childhood. His mother is dead, and lies in that 
quiet churchyard in the wood, where, if I mistake 
not, one of his ancestors will also have found a 
peaceful resting-place. The house has fully par- 
taken of the falling fortunes of its successive owners. 
The furniture is too old and worn for any new 
comer to be tempted to occupy the house ; and the 
little garden is let to a market-gardener. Strawber- 
ries will grow then on the turf where I am now 
walking, and which John, after mowing it twice in 
the week, and having spent all his time in its vicin- 
ity, from working-day morning till working-day 
night, comes to look at on a Sunday, and, with his 
hands in his pockets and himself arrayed in a waist- 
coat too bright almost to behold, surveys intently, 
as if it were one of the greatest products of human 
invention. And John need not be ashamed of this 
single-minded delight in his work, for, though it is 



48 COMPANIONS OF 31 Y SOLITUDE. 

nothing remarkable in England, the whole conti- 
nent of Europe does not probably afford such a 
well-shaven bit of grass ; and, as for our love of 
gardens, it is the last refuge of art in the minds and 
souls of many Englishmen ; if we did not care for 
gardens, I hardly know what in the way of beauty 
we should care for. Well, this has all ceased by 
that time to be pleasure-garden, and I fear to think 
of the j^rofane cabbages which will then occupy 
this trim velvety little spot. I hope that poor John, 
from some distant place, will not behold the pro- 
fanation. 

I have lingered on these details ; but I must now 
bring my distant descendant nearer to us. He will 
live in some lai-ge town, getting his bread in a 
humble way, and will sometimes steal down here, 
pretending to want to know whether anybody has 
applied to take the tumble-down place. This is 
what he says to his wife (for, of course, being so 
poor, this foolish Milverton has married), but she 
understands him better than to be deceived by that. 

He has just made one of these excvirsions, having, 
for economy's sake and a wish to avoid the neigh- 
bors, got out at a station ten miles off (our cathedral 
town), and walked over to his house. It is evening, 
and he has just arrived. Tired as he is, he takes a 



COMPANIONS OF M7 SOLITUDE. 49 

turn round the garden, and after a long-drawn sigh, 
which I know well the words for, he enters the 
house. The market-gardener lives in it, and his 
wife takes care of the master's rooms. She has 
lighted a fire : the smoke hardly ascends, but still 
there is warmth enough to call out much of the 
latent dampness of the apartment. The things about 
him are somewhat cheerless certainly, but he would 
not wish them to be otherwise. They would be 
very inharmonious if they were. During his meagre 
supper he is entertained with an account of the 
repairs that must be looked to. The water comes 
in here, and part of the wall has fallen down there ; 
and farmer Smith says (the coarse woman need not 
have repeated the very words) that if Mr. Milverton 
is too poor to mend his own fence, he, farmer 
Smith, must do it himself. Patiently the poor man 
appears to attend to all this, but is thinking all the 
while of his pale mother, and of his wondering, as 
a child, why she never used to look up when hoi'se 
or man went by, as she sat working at that bay 
window, and getting his clothes ready for school. 

At last the market-gardener's wife, little attended 
to, bounces out of the room ; and her abrupt departure 
rouses my distant descendant to think of ways and 
means. And here I cannot help, as if I were present 



50 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

at the reverie, breaking in and saying, "Do not cut 
down that yew-tree in the back garden, the stately 
well-grown one which was an ancient tree in my 
time." But no, upon second thoughts, I will say 
nothing of the kind. " Cut it down, cut them all 
down, dear distant descendant, rather than let little 
tradesmen want their money, or do the least dis- 
honorable thing." 

Apparently the present question of ways and means 
is settled somehow, for he rises and j^aces about the 
room. In a corner thei^e lies an aged Parliamentary 
report, a remnant from my old library, the bulk of 
which has long been sold. It is the report of a Select 
Committee upon the effect on prices of the influx of 
Californian gold. There are some side-notes which 
he takes to have been mine ; and this makes him 
think of me — not very kindly. These are his 
thoughts : This ancestor of mine, I see he busied 
himself about many worldly things ; it is not likely 
that, taking an interest in such affairs, he would not 
have cared to have some hand in managing them ; 
I conjecture that indeed, if only from one saying of 
his, that the bustle of life, if good for little else, at 
least keeps some sadness down at the bottom of the 
heart ; and yet I do not find that our estate prospered 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 51 

much under him. He might now, if he had been a 
prosperous gentleman, have bought some part of 
Woodcot chase (which was sold in his time and is 
now all building-ground), and I should not have 
been in this cursed plight. 

" Distant descendant, do not let misfortune make 
you, as it so often does make men, ungenerous." 

He feels this and resumes. I wonder why he did 
not become rich and great. I suspect he was very 
laborious. (" You do me full justice there.") I sup- 
pose he was very versatile, and did not keep to one 
thing at a time. ("You do me injustice there ; for I 
was always aware how much men must limit their 
efforts to effect any thing.") In his books he some- 
times makes shrewd worldly remarks which show he 
understood something of the world, and he ought to 
have mastered it. 

" Now, my dear young relative, allow me to say 
that last remark of yours upon character is a very 
weak one. Admitting, for the sake of argument, 
that what you urge in my favor be true, you must 
know that the people who write shrewdly are often 
the most easy to impose upon, or have been so. I 
almost suspect, without, however, having looked 
into the matter, that Rochefoucauld was a tender 
lover, a warm friend, and, in general, a dupe (hap- 



52 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

py for him) to all the impulses and affections which 
he would have us imagine he saw through and had 
mastered. The simple write shrewdly : but do not 
describe what they do. And the hard and worldly 
would be too wise in their generation to write about 
what they practise, even if they perceived it, which 
they seldom do, lacking delicacy of imagination." 

Perhaps (he continues) this ancestor of mine had 
no ambition, and did not care about any thing but 
that unwholesome scribbling (" ungracious again, 
distant descendant ! ") which has brought us in but 
little produce of any kind. 

Dear distant kinsman, now it is my turn to speak : 
now listen to me ; and I will show you the family 
failing, not a very uncommon one, which has re- 
duced us by degrees to this sad state ; for we, your 
ancestors, look on and suffer with you. 

I am afraid we must own that we were of that 
foolish class of men who never can say a hearty 
good word for themselves. You might put a Mil- 
verton in the most favorable position in the world, 
you might have made him a bishop in George the 
Second's time, or a minister to a Spanish king in 
the seventeenth century, and still he would have 
contrived to shuffle awkwardly out of wealth and 
dignities, when the right time came for self-assertion, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 53 

and for saying a stout word for his own cause, or 
for that of his kith and kin. 

" Vox faucibus hcesit ; " the poor, simple fellow 
was almost inaudible ; and, muttering something, 
was supposed to say just that which he did not. I 
foresaw, therefore, that unless some Milverton were 
by good fortune to marry into a sturdy, pushing 
family (which would be better for him than any 
amount of present fortune) it was all over with the 
race, as far as worldly prosperity is concerned. And 
so it seems to be. If you feel that you are free from 
this defect, I will insure you a fortune. Talk of 
cutting down the yew-tree ; not a stick of the plan- 
tation need be touched, and I already see deep 
belts of new wood rise round newly-gained acres. 
Only be sure that you really can stand up stoutly 
for yourself. 

I see what you are thinking of — that passage in 
Bacon (and it pleases me to find that you are so far 
well-read, though you have sold the books) where 
he says that there are occasions when a man needs 
a friend to do or say for him what he never can do 
or say so well, or even at all for himself. True : but, 
my simple-minded relative, have you lived to the 
age of twenty-seven, and not discovered that Phoe- 
nixes and Friends are creatures of the least prolific 



54 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

nature? Not that, adopting your misanthropic 
mood, I would say that there are no such creatures 
as friends, and that they are not potent for good. A 
man's friend, however, is ill, or travelling, or pow- 
erless ; but good self-assurance is always within call. 

You are mute : you feel then that you are guilty 
too. Be comforted ; perhajDS there is some island 
of the blest where there will be no occasion for 
pushing. Once this happened to me, that a great 
fierce obdurate crowd were pushing up in long line 
towards a door which was to lead them to some 
good thing ; and I, not liking the crowd, stole out 
of it, having made up my mind to be last, and was 
leaning indolently against a closed-up side door : 
when, all of a sudden, this door opened, and I was 
the first to walk in, and saw arrive long after me 
the men who had been thrusting and struggling 
round me. This does not often happen in the world, 
but I think there was a meaning in it. 

But now no more about me. We have to think 
what is to be done in your case. 

You labor under a retiring disposition, you are 
maiTied, and you wish to retrieve the family for- 
tunes. This is a full and frank statement of your 
case, and there is no doubt that it is a very bad one, 
requiring wise and energetic remedies. First, you 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 55 

must at once abandon all those pursuits which de- 
pend for success upon refined appreciation. You 
must seek to do something which many people de- 
mand. I cannot illustrate what I mean better than 
by telling you what I often tell my publisher, when- 
ever he speaks of the slackness of trade. There is 
a confectioner's shop next door, which is thronged 
with people : I beg him (the publisher) to draw a 
moral from this, and to set up, himself, an eating- 
house. That would be appealing to the million in 
the right way. I tell him he could hire me and 
oth-ers of his " eminent hands " to cook instead of 
to write, and then, instead of living on our wits 
(slender diet indeed !), we ourselves should be able 
to buy books, and should become great patrons of 
literature. I did not tell him, because it is not wise 
to run down authors in the presence of publishers, 
what I may mention to you, that many of us would 
be much more wisely and wholesomely employed in 
cooking than in writing. But this is nothing to you. 
What I want you, dear distant kinsman, to perceive, 
is, that you must at once cultivate something which 
is in general demand. Emigrate, if you like, and 
cultivate the ground. Cattle are always in some 
demand, if only for tallow. It is better to provide 
the fuel for the lamp than those productions which 



56 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

are said to smell most of it. I cannot enter into 
details with you ; because I do not foresee what 
will be the flourishing trades in your time. I can 
only give you general advice. 

One of the great aids, or hindrances, to success in 
any thing lies in the temperament of a man, I do 
not know yours ; but I venture to point out to you 
what is the best temperament, namely, a combination 
of the desponding and the resolute, or, as I had bet- 
ter express it, of the apprehensive and the resolute. 
Such is the temperament of great commanders. 
Secretly, they rely upon nothing and upon nobody. 
There is such a powerful element of failure in all 
human affairs, that a shrewd man is always saying 
to himself, what shall I do, if that which I count 
upon does not come out as I expect. This foresight 
dwarfs and crushes all but men of great resolution. 

Then be not over-choice in looking out for what 
may exactly suit you ; but rather be ready to adopt 
any opportunities that occur. Fortune does not 
stoop often to take any one up. Favorable oppor- 
tunities will not happen precisely in the way that 
you have imagined. Nothing does. Do not be dis- 
couraged, therefore, by a present detriment in any 
course which may lead to something good. Time 
is so precious here. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. ^ij 

Get, if you can, into one or other of the main 
grooves of human affairs. It is all the difference of 
going by railway, and walking over a ploughed 
field, whether you adopt common courses, or set up 
one for yourself. You will see, if your times are 
any thing like ours, very inferior persons highly 
placed in the army, in the church, in office, at the 
bar. They have somehow got upon the line, and 
have moved on well with very little original motive 
power of their own. Do not let this make you talk 
as if merit were utterly neglected in these or any 
professions : only that getting well into the groove 
will frequently do instead of any great excellence. 

My sarcastic friend, Ellesmere, whom you will 
probably know by repute as a great Chief Justice, or 
Lord Chancellor, says, with the utmost gravity, that 
no man with less than a thousand pounds a year (I 
wonder whether in your times you will think that a 
large or a small income) can afford to have private 
opinions upon certain important subjects. He ad- 
mits that he has known it done upon eight hundred 
a year ; but only by very prudent people with small 
families. 

But the night is coming on, and I feel, my dear 
descendant, as if I should like to say something 
more solemn to you than these worldly maxims. 



58 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Whatever happens, do not be dissatisfied with 
your worldly fortunes, lest the speech be justly 
made to you which was once made to a repining 
person much given to talk of how great she and 
hers had been. " Yes, madam," was the crushing 
reply, " we all find our level at last." 

Eternally that fable is true, of a choice being 
given to men on their entrance into life. Two ma- 
jestic women stand before you : one in rich vesture, 
superb, with what seems like a mural crown on her 
head and plenty in her hand, and something of tri- 
umph, I will not say of boldness, in her eye ; and 
she, the queen of this world, can give you many 
things. The other is beautiful, but not alluring, 
nor rich, nor powerful ; and th6re are traces of care 
and shame and sorrow in her face ; and (marvel- 
lous to say) her look is downcast and yet noble. 
She can give you nothing, but she can make you 
somebody. If you cannot bear to part from her 
sweet, sublime countenance, which hardly veils 
with sorrow its infinity, follow her : follow her, I 
say, if you are really minded so to do ; but do not, 
while you are on this track, look back with ill-con- 
cealed envy on the glittering things which fall in 
the path of those who prefer to follow the rich 
dame, and to pick up the riches and honors which 
fall from her cornucopia. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 59 

This is in substance what a true artist said to me 
only the other day, impatient, as he told me, of the 
complaints of those who would pursue art, and yet 
would have fortune. 

But, indeed, all moral writings teem with this 
remark in one form or other. You cannot have 
inconsistent advantages. Do not shun this maxim 
because it is common-place. On the contrary, take 
the closest heed of what observant men, who would 
probably like to show originality, are yet constrained 
to repeat. Therein lies the marrow of the wisdom 
of the world. Such things are wiser than proverbs, 
which are seldom true except for the occasion on 
which they are used, and are generally good to 
strengthen a resolve rather than to enlighten it. 

These latter words of mine fall upon an inatten- 
tive ear ; for my distant descendant, who has been 
gradually becoming more composed during the pro- 
gress of this moral essay, at last falls quite asleep. 
Perhaps the great triumph of all moral writings, 
including sermons, is that at least they have pro- 
duced some sweet and innocent sleep. 

Poor fellow ! I now see how careworn he seems, 
though not without some good looks, which he owes 
to his great-great-great-grandmother, of whom, as 
he lies there, he puts me much in mind. He ought 



6o COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

to thank me for those good looks, and to admit that 
winning some beauty for the family is at least as 
valuable as that Woodcot chase which he thinks I 
ought to have laid hold of. But our unfair de- 
scendants never think of any thing in our favor : 
this gout and that asthma and those mortgages are 
all remembered against us ; we hear but little on 
the other side. 

Sleep on, dear distant progeny of mine, and I will 
keep the night watches of your anxious thought. 



CHAPTER V. 

'nr^HESE companions of my solitude, my reveries, 
take many forms. Sometimes, the nebulous 
stuff out of which they are formed, comes together 
with some method and set purpose, and may be 
compared to a heavy cloud, — then they will do for 
an essay or moral discourse ; at other times, they 
are merely like those spoi'tive disconnected forms of 
vapor which are streaked across the heavens, now 
like a feather, now like the outline of a camel, 
doubtless obeying some law and with some design, 
but such as mocks our observation ; at other times 
again, they arrange themselves like those fleckered 
clouds, where all the heavens are regularly broken 
up in small divisions, lying evenly over each other 
with light between each. The result of this last- 
mentioned state of reverie is well brought out in 
conversation : and so I am going to give the reader 
an account of some talk which I had lately with my 
friend EUesmere. 

Once or twice before I have used this name EUes- 
mere as if it were familiar to others as to myself. 
It is to be found in a book edited, as it appears, by 



62 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

a neighboring clergyman, named Dvmsford, who was 
obliging and laborious enough to set down some 
conversations in which he, Ellesmere, and myself 
took part ; and which he called Friends in Council. 
There is no occasion to refer to this book to under- 
stand Ellesmei"e : a man soon shows himself by his 
talk, if he does by any thing. Moreover the average 
reader will find the book a somewhat sober, not to 
say dull affair, embracing such questions as slavery, 
government, management of the poor, and such like. 
The reader, however, who is not the average reader, 
may perhaps find something worth agreeing with, or 
diflfering from, in the book. 

I flatter myself that last sentence is very skilful. 
The poor publisher, or rather his head man, com- 
plains sadly that not even the usual amount of ad- 
vertisement, not to speak of pufiing, is allowed to 
him ; the good clergyman having a peculiar aversion 
to such modes of dealing, and believing that good 
books, if there were such things, should be sought 
after, and not poked in the faces of purchasers like 
Jews' penknives at coach doors. By this delicate 
piece of flattery, for each reader will secretly conclude 
that he is above the average and hasten to buy the 
book, I shall have done more than in:.ny puffs direct. 
Therefore beat ease, man of business, the avenues to 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 63 

thy shop will be thronged, I can utter this prophecy 
with the more confidence as the shop in question is 
in the high road to the Great Exhibition. 

Well, my friend Ellesmere was with me for a day ; 
we were lounging about the garden ; the great black 
dog which I always let loose when Ellesmere is here, 
to please him, was slowly following us to and fro, 
hanging out his large tongue, and wishing we would 
sit down, but still not being able to resist following 
us about ; when Ellesmere suddenly interrupted 
something I was saying with these words, " The 
question between us almost comes to this : you want 
a sheep-dog. I am satisfied with a watch-dog: 
Rollo will do for me ; and, as you see, he is content 
with my approbation." 

This abrvipt speech requires some explanation. I 
had been talking about some matters connected with 
statesmanship, and stricturing, perhaps too severely, 
some recent acts of government, in which, as I said, 
I detected some of the worst habits of modern jDolicy 
— a mixture of rashness and indecision — meddling 
and doing nothing — spending, as I added, most of 
the powder for the flash in the pan. Then I went 
on to deplore, that always statesmanship appeared to 
come upon the stage too late. Is notliing ever to be 
done in time? * 

* Written in 1850. 



64 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

A good deal of what I said is true, I think, but 
ought to be taken " cum grano," as they say ; for men 
who have lived a good deal in active life, and are 
withdrawn from it, are ajDt to comment too severely 
on the conduct of those who are left behind. They 
forget the difficulty of getting any thing done in this 
perplexed world, and their own former difficulties 
in that way are softened by distance. It was well 
that Ellesmere interrupted me. The conversation 
thus proceeded. 

Milverton. Yes, that is the point. I confess I 
should like something of the sheep-dog in a ruler. 
I think we, of all nations, can bear judicious inter- 
ference and regulation ; we should not be cramped 
by it. 

Ellesjnere. In a representative government is the 
folly of the governed to find no place .'* 

Milverton. Yes, but, my good friend, you need 
not be anxious to provide for that. Folly will find 
a place even at the side of princes. That was the 
thing symbolized by great men's jesters. But, putting 
sarcasm aside, Ellesmere, J don't mean to blame 
present men so much as present doctrines and 
systems. Some of the men in power, or likely to 
be, in this country, are very honest, capable, brave 



COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 6$ 

men, full of desire to do good. But they have too 
little power, or rather, they meet with too much 
obstruction. Now, it is not wise to swathe a creat- 
ure up like a foreign baby, and then say, Exert 
yourself, govern us, let there be no delay. 

Ellesmere. The amount of obstruction is over- 
estimated. If a ruling man wanted to do any thing 
good, I think he could do it, though I do admit 
that there are large powers of obstruction to be 
encountered. 

Milverton. I do believe you are right. A states- 
man might venture to be greater and bolder than 
his position or apparent power quite warrants. And 
if he were to fall, he would fall — and there an end. 

Ellesmere. And no such great damage either. 

Milverton. But to return to your watch-dog and 
sheep-dog. There are two things very different 
demanded from statesmen : one, carrying on the 
routine of office ; the other, originating measures, 
setting the limits within which private exertion 
should act. You do not mean to contend, Ellesmere, 
that it would not have been wise for a government 
to have interfered with railway legislation earlier 
and more efficiently than it did. 

Ellesmere. No, — few jDeople know better than 
I do the immense loss of time, money, labor, tem- 

5 



66 COMPANIONS OF 3fY SOLITUDE. 

per, and happiness which might have been saved in 
that matter. 

Milverton. Now^ look again on Sanitary meas- 
ures. Consider the years it has taken, and, for 
aught I know^, may yet take, to get a Smoke Prohi- 
bition Bill passed. If such a thing is wise and 
possible, let us have it ; if not, tell us it cannot be 
done. I have taken instances in physical things 
just as they occurred to me : 1 might have alluded 
to higher matters which are left in the same way, 
to see what will happen, to wait for the breezes, 
perhaps the storms, of popular agitation. 

Ellesmere. People in authority are as fearful of 
attacking any social evil as men are of cutting down 
old trees about their houses. There is always some- 
thing, however, to be said for the old trees. 

Milverton. It would mostly be better, though, 
to cut them down at once, and begin to plant some- 
thing at the proper distance from their houses. 

Ellesinere. Well, Milverton, there is one thing 
you must remember, and that is, that intelligent 
men writing or talking about government are apt 
to fancy themselves, or such men as themselves, in 
power; and so are inclined to be. very liberal in 
assigning the limits of that power. Let them fancy 
some of the foolish people they know in this imagi- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 67 

nary position of great power ; and then see how the 
intelligent men begin to shudder at the thought of 
this power, and to desire very secure limits for it, 
and very narrow space for its exercise. 

Milverton. Intelligent public opinion will in 
these days prevent vigorous action in a minister from 
hardening into despotism. 

Bllesjnere. Please repeat that again, my friend. 
"Intelligent public opinion?" Were those the 
words? did I catch them rightly? 

Milverton. You did. There is such a thing, 
EUesmere. It is not the first opinion heard in the 
country ; it is not always loud on the hustings ; but 
surely there are a great number of persons in a 
country like this, who try to think, and eventually 
form intelligent public opinion. 

EUesmere. I am afraid they are not a very 
active body. 

Milverton. Not the most active ; but they come 
in at some time. 

Ellesniere. I do not wish to be impertinent, but 
do any of these people who ultimately (ultimately, 
I like that word), form intelligent public opinion, 
live in the country? I can imagine a retired wisdom 
in some Court in London, say Pump Court for 
instance, but I cannot fancy the blowsy wisdom of 
the country. 



68 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Milverton. Now, Ellesmere, do not be pro- 
voking. 

Ellesmere. I am all gravity again ; but just 
allow me to propound one little theory, namely, 
that it is when the retired wisdom of town is reviv- 
ified by country air (on a visit) that it is apt to 
develop itself into — what is it? — oh — " intelligent 
public opinion." 

Milverton. Now, as you have had your joke, I 
will proceed. I have a theory that the tempera- 
ment and habits of mind of individual statesmen 
have a good deal to do with government. I do not 
yet believe that we are all compounded into some 
great machine of which you can exactly calculate 
the results. 

Ellesmere. What is your pet temperament for 
a statesman "^ 

Milverton. That is a large question : one thing 
I should be inclined to say, with respect to his habit 
of mind, — he should doubt till the last, and then 
act like a man who has never doubted. 

Ellesmere. Cleverly put, but untrue, after the 
fashion of you maxim-mongers. He should not act 
like a man who has never doubted, but like a man 
who was in the habit of doubting till he had 
received sufficient information. He should not con- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 69 

vey to you the idea of a man who was given to 
doubt, or not to doubt ; but of one who could wait 
till he had inquired. 

Milverto7t. Your criticism is just. Well, then, 
another thing which occurs to me respecting his 
habits of mind is, that he should be one of those 
people who are not given to any system, and yet 
who have an exceeding love of improvement and 
disposition to regulate. 

Elles7Jiere. That is good. I distrust systems. I 
find that men talk of principles ; and mean, when you 
come to inquire, rules connected with certain systems. 

Milverton. This enables me to bring my notions 
of govermnent interference to a point. It should be 
a principle in a statesman's mind that he should not 
interfere so as to deaden private action : at the same 
time he should be profoundly anxious that right and 
good should be done, and consequently not fear to 
undertake responsibility. He should not be en- 
trapped, mentally, into any system of policy which 
held him to interfere here, or not to interfere there ; 
but he should be inclined to look at each case on its 
own merits. This is very hard work. Systems save 
trouble, — the trouble of thinking. 

Ellesjnere. There is some sense in what you say. 
If we talk no more about statesmanship (and to tell 



yo COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

the truth I am rather tired of the subject), our dia- 
logue will end like the dialogues in a book, where, 
after much sham stage-fighting, the author's opinion is 
always made to prevail. By the way, I dare say you 
think that the nursery for Statesmen is Literature ; 
and that in these days of railways, a short line from 
Grub Street to Downing Street (a single set of rails, 
as no one will want to return) is imperatively needed. 

Milverton. No, I do not. I think that good Lit- 
erature, like any other good work, gives notice of 
material out of which a statesman might choose. To 
make a good book, my dear friend, is a very hard 
thing, I suspect. I do not mean a work of genius. 
Of course such are very rare. But to give an account 
of any transaction ; to put forward any connected 
views ; in short to do any mere literary work well ; 
it requires many of the things which tend to make a 
good man of business, — industry, for instance, 
method, clearness, resolve, power of adaptation. 

Ellesmere. Yes, no doubt : foreign nations seem 
to have profited so much from calling literary men 
to their aid, that — 

Milverton. That is an unjust sneer, Ellesmere. 
Some of the writings of the men to whom I know 
you allude, do not fulfil the condition of being good 
books ; are full of false antitheses, illogical conclu- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 71 

slons, vapid assei'tlons, and words arranged accord- 
ing to prettiness, not to meaning. Such books are 
beacons ; they tell all men, the people who wrote us 
are sprightly fellows, but cannot be trusted, they love 
sound more than sense, pray do not trust them with 
any function requiring sense rather than sound. 

But you are not to conclude because some men 
make use of Literature, perhaps the only way open 
to them of carrying their views into action, that they 
could not act themselves. Napoleon was always 
writing early in life ; Ctesar indited books, even a 
grammar ; a whole host of captains and statesmen in 
the sixteenth century wez'e writers. Follow Cer- 
vantes, Mendoza, Sidney, Camoens, Descartes, Paul 
Louis Courier, to the field, and come back with them 
— if you ever do come back alive, you individual 
clothed with horsehair and audacity ; and then follow 
them to their studies and see whether they cannot give 
a good account of themselves in both departments. 

Ellesmere. Pistol is come back again on earth, 
or Bombastes Furioso, neither of whose characters 
sits well upon you. But, my friend, we are wont in 
law to look to the point at issue ; we were talking 
of statesmen, not of soldiers. 

Milverton. Machiavelli — 

Ellesmere. That worthy man I 



72 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Milverton. Caesar again ! Lorenzo de' Medici, 
James the First of Scotland, Milton, Bacon, Grotius, 
Shaftesbury, Somers, St. John, Temple, Burke. And 
were I to rack my brains, or my books, I could no 
doubt make an ample list. 

Ellesmere. Good, bad, and indifferent : here they 
come, altogether. 

Alilverton. And have there been no bad states- 
men amongst those who had no tincture of letters.'' 

JSIIestnere. One or two, certainly. 

Milverton. You know, Ellesmere, I have never 
talked loudly of the claimsof literary men, and have 
always maintained that for them, especially when 
they are of real merit, to complain of neglect, is for 
the most part absurd. A gi-eat writer, as I think Mr. 
Carlyle has well said, creates a want for himself — 
a most artificial one. Nobody wanted him before he 
appeared. He has to show them what they want him 
for. You might as well talk of Leverrier's planet 
having been neglected in George the Second's time. 
It had not been discovered : that is all. 

There may be misunderstandings as to the nature 
of literary merit, as indeed of all merit, which may 
prevent worldly men from making due use of it in 
worldly affairs. For instance, I should say that diplo- 
matic services are services peculiarly fit to be per- 



COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 73 

formed by literary men. They are likely to be more 
of cosmopolites than other men are Their variqus 
accomplishments serve them as means of attaching 
others in strange countries. Their observations are 
likely to be good. One can easily see that a great 
deal of their habitual work would come into play in 
such employments. And there is an appearance of 
hardship in not giving, at least occasionally, to men 
who are particularly shut out from most worldly ad- 
vantages, those offices which they promise to be most 
fitted for. 

Ellesmere. It would improve many a literary man 
greatly to have, or to have had, some real business. 

Milverton. No doubt. Indeed, I have always 
thought it is a melancholy thing to see how shut up, 
or rather I should say, how twisted and deformed a 
man becomes by surrendering himself to any one 
art, science, calling, or culture. You see a person 
become a lawyer, a physician, a clergyman, an 
author, or an artist ; and cease to be a man, a whole- 
some man, fairly developed in all ways. Each 
man's art or function, however serviceable, should 
be attached to him no more than to a soldier his 
sword, which the accomplished military man can 
lay aside, and not even remind you that he has ever 
worn such a thing. 



74 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Ellesmere. An idea strikes me ; I see how literary 
men may be rewarded, literature soundly encour- 
aged, and yet the author be injured the least possible 
by his craft. Hitherto we have given pensions for 
what a man has written. I would do this : I would 
ascertain when a man has acquired that lamentable 
facility for doing second-rate things which is not 
uncommon in literature as in other branches of life, 
and then I would say to him, I see you can write, 
here is a hundred a year for you as long as you are 
quite quiet. Indeed, I think pensions and honors 
should generally be given to the persons who could 
have done the things for which such rewards are 
given, but who have not done them. I would say 
to this man, You have great pai"liamentary influence, 
you did not use it for mere party purposes ; there is 
a peerage for you. You, turning to another man, 
might have become a great lawyer, or rather a law- 
yer in great place : you had too much — 

Milverton. Modesty — 

Ellesmere. Pooh, nonsense ! modesty never did 
anybody any harm. No, let me go on with my 
speech. You had too much honesty, or scrupulous- 
ness, to escape being thrown out for the borough of 

which (as a lawyer to get on in the highest 

offices must please a constituency as well as under- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 75 

stand his business) was fatal to you. Here, how- 
ever, is a baronetcy for you. 

Here, you, Mr. Milverton, you might have written 
two books a year (dreadful thought !), you have not 
always inflicted one upon us. Be Guelphed, and 
consider yourself well off. Keep yourself quiet for 
several years, and we may advance you further. 

Oh ! what a patron of arts and letters is lost in 
me ! Now this dog can bark and make a horrible 
noise to distinguish himself; he does not do it — 
that is why I like you so much, my dear Rollo (at 
that instant, unluckily, Rollo, taking heed of EUes- 
mere's comical gestures, and seeing that something 
was addressed to him, began to frisk about and 
bark). Oh, dear me! I see one can't praise or 
encourage any creature without doing mischief. 

Milverton, You have not to reproach yourself 
for having done much in this way. 

Ellesmere. Too much, — sadly too much. But 
here comes John with a solicitous face, to get your 
orders about planting the trees which came last 
night, and which ought to have been put in early 
this morning. Attend to them : they are your great 
works ; some of them may live to a remote pos- 
terity : and while you are about it, my good fellow, 
do put in something which will produce eatables. 



^6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Those fir-cones are very pretty things, but hard to 
eat. Remember that a certain learned gentleman, 
who hopes to live to a good old age, is very fond of 
mulberries ; and if some trees were put in now, he 
might have something good to eat when he comes 
into the country, and be able to refresh himself 
after delivering judicious opinions on all subjects. 

So we separated, I to my trees, and Ellesmere to 
take the dog out for a walk. 



CHAPTER VI. 

T RESOLVED to-day to go out into the neighbor- 
ing pine-wood alone, to con over some notes 
which I am anxious to read by myself, with only an 
occasional remark from a wood-pigeon, or what may 
be gained from the gliding, rustling squirrel. There 
is scarcely any thing in nature to be compared with 
a pine-wood, I think. I remember once when, after 
a long joui'ney, I was approaching a city ennobled 
by great works of art, and of great renown, that I 
had to pass through what I was told by the guide- 
books was most insipid country, only to be hurried 
over as fast as might be, and nothing to be thought 
or said about it. But the guide-books, though very 
clever and useful things in their way, do not know 
each of us personally, nor what we secretly like and 
care for. Well, I was speeding through this " un- 
interesting" country, and now there remained but 
one long dull stage, as I read, to be gone through 
before I should reach the much-wished-for city. It 
was necessary to stay some time (for we travelled 
vetturino fashion) at the little post-house, and I 
walked on, promising to be in the way whenever 



78 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

the vehicle should overtake me. The road led 
through a v^rood, chiefly of pines, varied, however, 
occasionally by other trees. 

Into this wood I strayed. There was that almost 
indescribably soothing noise (the Romans would 
have used the word " susurrus"), the aggregate of 
many gentle movements of gentle creatures. The 
birds hopped but a few paces off", as I approached 
them ; the brilliant butterflies waved hither and 
thither before me ; there was a soft breeze that day, 
and the tops of the tall trees swayed to and fro po- 
litely to each other. I found many delightful rest- 
ing-places. It was not all dense wood ; but here 
and there were glades (such open spots, I mean, as 
would be cut through by the sword for an army to 
pass) ; and here and there stood a clump of trees 
of different heights and foliage, as beautifully ar- 
ranged as if some triumph of the art of landscape 
had been intended, though it was only Nature's way 
of healing up the gaps in the forest. For her heal- 
ing is a new beauty. 

It was very warm, without which nothing is beau- 
tiful to me ; and I fell into the pleasantest train of 
thought. The easiness of that present moment 
seemed to show the possibility of all care being 
driven away from the world some day. For thus 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 79 

peace brings a sensation of power with it. I shall 
not say what I thought of, for it is not good always 
to be communicative ; but altogether that hour in 
the pine-wood was the happiest hour of the whole 
journey, though I saw many grand pictures and 
noble statues, a mighty river and buildings which 
were built when people had their own clear thoughts 
of what they meant to do, and how they would do 
it. But in seeing these things there is, so to speak, 
something that is official, that must be done in a 
set way ; and, after all, it is the chance felicities in 
minor things which are so pleasant in a journey. 
You had intended, for instance, to go and hear some 
great service, and there was something to be done, 
and a crowd to be encountered ; and you open your 
window and find, as the warm air streams in, that 
beautiful sounds come with it ; in truth your win- 
dow is not far off from an opening in one of the ca- 
thedral windows, and there you stay drinking in all 
the music, being alone. You feel that a bit of good 
fortune has happened to you ; and you are happier 
all the day for it. 

It is the same thing in the journey of life : pleasure 
falls into no plan. 

I think I have justified my liking for a pine-wood ; 



8o COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

and though the particular wood I can get at here is 
but a poor thing as compared with the great forests 
I have been thinking of, yet, looked at with all the 
reminiscence of their beauties, its few and mean par- 
ticulars are so wrought upon by memory and fancy, 
that it brings before me a sufficient picture, half 
seen, half recollected, of all that is most beautiful 
in sylvan scenery. 

To my wood then I wandered ; and, after pacing 
up and down a little, and enjoying the rich color of 
the trunks of the trees, I sat down upon a tree that 
had been lately felled, and read out my notes to my- 
self. Here they are. They begin, I see, with a 
little narration ; which, however, is not a bad be- 
ginning. 

It was a bright winter's day ; and I sat upon a 
garden-seat in a sheltei-ed nook towards the south, 
having come out of my study to enjoy the warmth, 
like a fly that has left some snug crevice to stretch 
his legs upon the unwontedly sunny pane in Decem- 
ber. My little daughter (she is a very little thing 
about four years old) came running up to me, and 
when she had arrived at my knees, held up a strag- 
gling but pretty weed. Then, with gx"eat earnest- 
ness, and as if fresh from some controversy on the 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. Si 

subject, she exclaimed, " Is this a weed, Papa ; is 
this a weed ? " 

" Yes, a weed," I replied. 

With a look of disappointment she moved off to 
the one she loved best amongst us ; and, asking the 
same question, received the same answer. 

" But it has flowers," the child replied. 

" That does not signify ; it is a weed," was the 
inexorable answer. 

Presently, after a moment's consideration, the 
child ran off again, and meeting the gardener just 
near my nook, though out of sight from where I 
sat, she coaxingly addressed him. 

" Nicholas dear, is this a weed?" 

" Yes, miss, they call it ' Shepherd's purse.' " 

A pause ensued : I thought the child was now 
fairly silenced by authority, when all at once the 
little voice began again, " Will you plant it in my 
garden, Nicholas dear? do plant it in my garden." 

There was no resisting the anxious entreaty of 
the child ; and man and child moved off together to 
plant the weed in one of those plots of ground 
which the children walk about upon a good deal, 
and put branches of trees in and grown-up flowers, 
and then examine the roots (a system as encourag- 
ing as other systems of education I could name), 

and which they call their gardens. 
6 



82 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

But the child's words " Will you plant it in my 
garden ? " remained upon my mind. That is what 
I have always been thinking, I exclaimed : and it is 
what I will begin by saying. 

And, indeed, dear reader, if I were to tell you 
how long I have been thinking of the subject which 
I mean to preface by the child's fond words ; and 
how hopeless it has at times appeared to me to say 
any thing worth hearing about it ; and how I have 
still clung to my resolve, and worked on at other 
things with a view of coming eventually to this, 
you would sympathize with me already, as we do 
with any man who keeps a task long in mind and 
heart, though he execute it at last but poorly, and 
though it be but a poor task, such as a fortune for 
himself, or a tomb for his remains. For we like to 
see a man persevere in any thing. 

Without more preface, then, I will say at once 
that this subject is one which I have been wont to 
call " the great sin of great cities" — not that in 
so calling it, I have perhaps been strictly just, but 
the description will do well enough. For what is 
the thing which must so often diminish the pride of 
man when contemplating the splendid monuments 
of a great city, its shops, its public buildings, parks, 
equipages, and above all, the wonderful way in 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 83 

which vast crowds of people go about their affairs 
with so little outward contest- and confusion? I im- 
agine the beholder in the best parts of the town, 
not diving into narrow streets, wandering sickened 
and exhausted near uncovered ditches in squalid sub- 
urbs, or studiously looking behind the brilliant sur- 
face of things. But what is it which on that very 
surface, helping to form a part of the brilliancy 
(like the prismatic colors seen on stagnant film), 
conveys at times to any thoughtful mind an impres- 
sion of the deepest mournfulness, a perception of 
the dark blots upon human civilization, in a word, 
some appreciation of the great sin of great cities ? The 
vile sewer, the offensive factory chimney, the squal- 
id suburb tell their own tale very clearly. The girl 
with hardened look, and false iinprinted smile, tells 
one no less ominous of evil. 

In fact I do not know any one thing which con- 
centrates and reflects more accurately the evils of 
any society than this sin. It is a measure of the want ' 
of employment, the uncertainty of employment, the 
moral corruption amongst the higher classes, the 
want of education amongst the lower, the relaxation 
of bonds between master and servant, employer 
and employed ; and, indeed, it expi-esses the want 



84 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

of prudence, truth, light, and love in that commu- 
nity. 

In considering any evil, our thoughts maybe classed 
under three heads, — the nature of it, the causes of it, 
the remedies for it. Often the discussion of any one 
of these great branches of the subject involves the 
other two ; and it becomes difficult to divide them 
without pedantry. But in general, we may, for 
convenience, attend to such a division of the subject. 

I. The Nature. 

The nature of the evil in this case is one which 
does not require to be largely dwelt upon ; and yet 
several things must be said about it. One which 
occurs to me is the degradation of race. Thousands 
ujDon thousands of beautiful women are by it con- 
demned to stei'ility. As a nation, we should look 
with exceeding jealousy and alarm at any occupation 
which claimed our tallest men and left them without 
offspring. And, surely, it is no light matter, in a 
national point of view, that any sin should claim the 
right of consuming, sometimes as rapidly as if they 
were a slave population, a considerable number of 
the best-looking persons in the community. 

How slight, however, is the physical degradation 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 85 

compared with the mental degradation caused by 
this sin : and here I do not mean only the dishonor 
of the individuals, but the large social injury which 
the mere existence of such a thing causes. For it 
accustoms men to the contemplation of the greatest 
social failures, and introduces habitually a low view 
of the highest things. We are apt to look at each 
individual case too harshly ; but the whole thing is 
not looked at gravely enough. This often happens 
in considering any great social abuse ; and so we 
frequently commence the remedy by some great 
injustice in a particular case. 

In appreciating the nature of this evil, the feelings 
of the people concerned with it are a large part of 
the subject. On the one side are shame, pride, 
dejection, restlessness, hopelessness, and a sense of 
ill-usage resulting in a bitter effrontery, a mean 
heartlessness, and a godless remorse. As a mere 
matter of statesmanship such a class requires to be 
looked to as pre-eminently dangerous. On the other 
side is often the meanness without the shame ; and 
a permanent coarseness and unholiness of mind is 
inflicted upon the sex that most requires refinement 
and spirituality in the affections. 

To return, however, to a consideration of the feel- 
ings of the poor women ; it may be noticed that they 



86 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

have an excessive fear of being left alone with their 
own recollections, which is, no doubt, a great obstacle 
to their being reclaimed. Withal there is something 
very grand though sad, that one of the main obstacles 
to outward improvement lies in the intensity of shame 
for the wrong-doing, in a diniib but profound remorse. 
You may see similar feelings operating very variously 
among the greatest men whose sjDiritual state is at 
all known to us. Poor Luther exclaims, " When I 
am assailed with heavy tribulations, I rush out among 
my pigs, rather than remain alone by myself. The 
human heart is like a millstone in a mill ; when you 
put wheat under it, it turns and grinds and bruises 
the wheat to flour ; if you put no wheat, it still grinds 
on, but then it is itself it grinds and wears away." 

Certainly the Gospel seems especially given to 
meet these cases of remorse, and to prevent despair 
(not the tempter but the slave driver to so many 
crimes) from having an unjust and irreligious hold, 
not so much on men's fears as on their fancies — 
especially their notions of perfection as regards 
themselves. For I doubt not but that men and 
women much lower down in the scale of cultivation 
and sensibility than we imagine, are haunted by a 
sense of their own fall from what they feel and think 
they ought to have been. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 8*/ 



II. The Causes. 

The main cause of this sin on the woman's part 
is want, — absolute want. This, though one of the 
most grievous things to contemplate, has at the same 
time a large admixture of hope in it. For, surely, 
if civilization is to make any sufficient answer for 
itself, and for the many serious evils jt promotes, it 
ought to be, that it renders the vicissitudes of life 
less extreme, that it provides a resource for all of 
us against excessive want. Hitherto we have not 
succeeded in making it do so, but it is contended, 
and with apparent justice, that it acts better in this 
respect than savage life. At any rate, to return to 
the main course of my argument, it is more satis- 
factory to hear that this evil is a result, on one side 
at least, of want rather than of depravity. 

The next great cause is in the over-rigid views 
and opinions, especially as against women, ex- 
pressed in reference to unchastity. Christianity has 
been in some measure to blame for this ; though, if 
rightly applied, it would have been the surest cure. 
" Publicans and sinners ! " Such did He prefer 
before the company of Pharisees and hypocrites. 
These latter; however, have been in great credit 



88 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

ever since ; and, for my part, I see no end to their 
being pronounced for ever the choice society of the 
world. 

The virtuous, carefully tended and carefully 
brought up, ought to bethink themselves how little 
they may owe to their own merit that they are vir- 
tuous, for it is in the evil concurrence of bad dispo- 
sition and masterless opportunity that crime comes. 
Of course, to an evil-disposed mind, opportunity 
will never be wanting; but, when one person or 
class of persons is from circumstances peculiarly 
exposed to temptation, and goes wrong, it is no 
great stretch of charity for others to conclude that 
that person, or class, did not begin with worse dis- 
positions than they themselves who are still without 
a stain. This is very obvious ; but it is to be 
obsei'ved that the reasoning powers which are veiy 
prompt in mastering any simple scientific proposi- 
tion, experience a wonderful halting in their logic 
when applied to the furtherance of charity. 

There is a very homely proverb, about the fate of 
the pitcher that goes often to the water, which might 
be an aid to charity, and which bears closely on 
the present case. The Spaniards, from whom I 
dare say we have the proverb, express it prettily 
and pithily. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 89 

" Cantarillo que muchas vezes va a la fuente, 
O dexa la asa, o la frente." 

"The little pitcher that goes often to the fountain, either 
leaves the handle or the spout behind some day." 

The dainty vase, which is kept under a glass case 
in a drawing-room, should not be too proud of re- 
maining without a flaw, considering its great advan- 
tages. 

In the New Testament we have such matters 
treated in a truly divine manner. There is no pal- 
liation of crime. Sometimes our charity is so 
mixed up with a mash of sentiment and sickly feel- 
ing that we do not know where we are, and what is 
vice, and what is virtue. But here are the brief 
stern words, " Go, and sin no more ; " but, at the 
same time, there is an infinite consideration for the 
criminal, not however as criminal, but as human 
being : I mean, not in respect of her criminality, 
but of her humanity. 

Now, an instance of our want of obedience to 
these Christian precepts has often struck me in the 
not visiting married women whose previous lives 
will not bear inspection. Whose will ? Not merely 
all Christian people, but all civilized people, ought 
to set their faces against this excessive retrospection. 

But if ever thei'e were an occasion on which men 



90 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

(I say men, but I mean more especially women) 
should be careful of scattering abroad unjust and 
severe sayings, it is in speaking of the frailties and 
delinquencies of women. For it is one of those 
things where an unjust judgment, or the fear of one, 
breaks down the bridge behind the repentant ; and 
has often made an error into a crime, and a single 
crime into a life of crime. 

A daughter has left her home, madly, ever so 
wickedly, if you like ; but what are too often the 
demons tempting her onwards and preventing her 
return.'' The uncharitable speeches she has heard 
at home ; and the feeling she shares with most of 
us, that those we have lived with are the sharpest 
judges of our conduct. 

" Would you, then," exclaims some reader or 
hearer, " take back and receive with tenderness a 
daughter who had erred?" "Yes," I reply, "if 
she had been the most abandoned woman upon 
earth." 

A foolish family pride often adds to this uncharit- 
able way of feeling and speaking which I venture 
to reprehend. Our, care is not that an evil and an 
unfortunate thing has happened, but that our family 
has been disgraced, as we call it. Family vanity 
mixes up with and exasperates rigid virtue. Good 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 91 

heavens ! if we could but see where disgrace really 
lies, how often men would be ashamed of their 
riches and their honors ; and would discern that a 
bad temper, or an irritable disposition, was the 
greatest family disgrace that attached to them. 

A fear of the uncharitable speeches of others is 
the incentive in many courses of evil ; but it has a 
peculiar effect in the one we are considering, as it 
occurs with most force just at the most critical period, 
— when the victim of seduction is upon the point 
of falling into worse ways. Then it is that the un- 
charitable speeches she has heard on this subject in 
former days are so many goads to her, urging her 
along the downward path of evil. What a strange 
desperate notion it is of men, when they have 
erred, that things are at the worst, that nothing can 
be done to rescue them ; whereas Judas might have 
done something better than hang himself. 

But if we were all so kind, exclaims some rigid 
man, we should only encourage the evil we wish to 
subdue. He does not see that the first step in evil, 
and the abandonment to it as a course of life, pro- 
ceed mostly from totally different motives, and are 
totally different things. One who dwelt on a secure 
height of peace and virtue, has fallen sadly and 
come down upon a table-land plagued with storms 



C)Z COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

and liable to attacks of all kinds, and from which 
there is no ascent to the height again, but which is 
still at an immense distance above a certain abyss ; 
and we should be very cautious of doing any thing 
that might make the foolish, dejected, pride-led 
person plunge hopelessly down into the abyss, in all 
probability, to be lost forever. 

Before quitting the subject of the family, I must 
observe that, independently of any harshness of 
remark which a young person may have been accus- 
tomed to hear on matters connected with our present 
subject, the ill-management of parents must be 
taken into account as one of the most common 
causes of this sin. It is very sad to be obliged to 
say this, but the thing is true, and must be said. 
We must not, however, be too much discouraged at 
this, for the truth is, that to perform well any one 
of the great relations of life is an immense difficulty ; 
and when we see on a tombstone (those underneath 
can now say nothing to the contrary) that the de- 
funct was a good husband, father, and son, we may 
conclude, if the words were truthful, that we are 
passing by the mortal remains of an Admirable 
Crichton in morality. And these relations are the 
more difficult, as they are not to be completely ful- 
filled by an abnegation of self, in other words, by a 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 93 

weak giving way upon all points ; which is the ruin 
of many a person. I am not, however, going, in 
this particular case, to speak of the spoiling of 
children in the ordinary sense, but rather of the 
contrary defect ; which, strange to say, is quite as 
common, if not more so. Of necessity the ages of 
parents and children are separated by a considerable 
interval ; the particular relation is one full of awe 
and authority ; and the effect of that disparity of 
years, and of that natural awe and authority, may 
easily, by harsh or ungenial parents, be strained too 
far ; other persons, and the world in general (not 
caring for the welfare of those who are no children 
of theirs, and besides using the just courtesy 
towards strangers) , are often tolerant when parents 
are not so, which puts them to a great disadvantage ; 
small matters are often needlessly made subjects of 
daily comment and blame ; and, in the end, it comes 
that home is sometimes any thing but the happy 
place we choose to make it out, in songs and fictions 
of various kinds. This, when it occurs, is a great 
pity. I am for making home very happy to chil- 
dren if it can be managed ; which, of course, is not 
to be done by weak compliances, and having no 
fixed rules. For no creature is happy, or even free, 
as Goethe has pointed out, except in the circuit of 



94 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

law. But laws and regulations having once been 
laid down, all within those bounds should be very 
kind at home. Now listen to the captious queru- 
lous scoldings that you may hear, even as you go 
along the streets, addressed by parents to children ; 
is it not manifest that in after life there will be too 
much fear in the children's minds, and a belief that 
their father and mother never will sympathize with 
them as others even might — never will forgive 
them ? People of all classes, high and low, err in 
the same way ; and, in looking about the world, I 
have sometimes thought that a thoroughly judicious 
father is one of the rarest creatures to be met with. 

Another cause of the frailty of women, in the 
lower classes, is in the comparative inelegance and 
uncleanliness of the men in their own class. It also 
arises from the fondness which all women have for 
inerit, or what they suppose to be such, so that their 
love is apt to follow what is in any way distin- 
guished ; and this throws the women of any class 
cruelly open to the seductions of the men in the 
class above. For women are the real aristocrats ; 
and it is one of their greatest merits. Men's intel- 
lects, even some of the brightest, may occasionally 
be deceived by theories about equality and the like, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 95 

but women, who look at reality more, are rarely led 

away by nonsense of this kind. 

A cause of this sin of a very different kind, and 

applying to men, is a dreadful notion which has 

occasionally been adopted in these latter ages, 

namely, that it is a fine thing for a man to have 

gone through a great deal of vice — to have had 

much personal experience of wickedness ; in short, 

that knowledge of vice is knowledge of the world, 

and that such knowledge of the world is eminently 

useful. That is not the way in which the greatest 

thinkers read the world ; they tell us that 

" The Gods approve the depth and not the tumult of the 
soul." 

Self-restraint is the grand thing, is the great tutor. 

But let us not talk insincerely even for a good end, 
as we may suppose ; and therefore do not let us deny 
that every evil carries with it its teachings. An in- 
dulgence in dissipation teaches that dissipation is a 
fatal thing ; and the man who learns that, very often 
does not learn any thing more. But the excellence 
of particular men must greatly consist in their appre- 
ciating truths without having to pay the full experi- 
ence for them ; so that in those respects they have 
a great start of other men. However, whether these 
theories of mine be true or not, there can be no 



96 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

doubt, I think, that indulgence of any kind is a thing 
which requires no theory to support it ; and I do not 
think it will be found that the men of consummate 
knowledge of the world have gained that knowledge 
by vice ; but rather, as all other knowledge is gained, 
by toil and truth and love and self-restraint. And 
these four things do not abide with vice. 

Probably, too, a low view of humanity which vice 
gives, is in itself the greatest barrier to the highest 
knowledge. 

One great source of the sin we are considering is 
the want of other thoughts. Here puritanism comes 
in, as it has any time these two hundred years, to 
darken and deepen every mischief. The lower or- 
ders here are left with so. little to think of but labor 
and vice. Now, any grand thought, great poetiy, 
or noble song, is adverse to any abuse of the pas- 
sions — even that which seems most concerned with 
the passions. For all that is great in idea, that in- 
sists upon men's attention, does so by an appeal, 
expressed or implied, to the infinite within him and 
around him. A man coming from a great repre- 
sentation of Macbeth is not in the humor for a low 
intrigue: and, in general, vice, especially of. the 
kind we are considering, seizes hold not of the pas- 
sionate, so much as of the cold and vacant mind. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 97 

On this account education and cultivation are to 
be looked to as potent remedies. Tlie pleasures of 
the poor will be found to be moral safeguards rather 
than dangers. I smile sometimes when I think of 
the preacher in some remote country place implor- 
ing his hearei's not to give way to backbiting, not 
to indulge in low sensuality, and not to busy them- 
selves with other people's affairs. Meanwhile what 
are they to do if they do not concern themselves 
with such things.'' The heavy ploughboy, who 
lounges along in that listless manner, has a mind 
which moves with a rapidity that bears no relation 
to that outward heaviness of his. That mind will 
be fed ; will consume all about it, like oxygen, if 
new thoughts and aspirations are not given it. The 
true strategy in attacking any vice, is by putting in 
a virtue to counteract it ; in attacking any evil 
thought, by putting in a good thought to meet it. 
Thus a man is lifted into a higher state of being, 
and his old slough falls off him. 

With women, too, there is this especial danger, 
that fiction has hitherto been apt to tell them that 
they are nothing if they are not loved, and to fill 
their heads with the most untrue views of human 
life. Fiction must try and learn that she is only 
Truth with a mask on, so that she may speak truer 
7 



'98 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

things sometimes with less offence than Truth herself. 
Fiction must not represent love as always such a 
very fine thing, or as tending invariably to felicity, 
thus ignoring the trials of wedded life, and of affection 
generally, — as if life were cut into two parts, one 
all shade, the other all light. We cannot school 
Love much ; but sometimes he might be induced to 
listen to reason. And at any rate, all would agree 
that much mischief may be done by unsound repre- 
sentations of human life in this very important 
respect. 

But, our antagonist may say, these very fictions 
are amusement, and so far of use as furnishing some 
food for the mind. Yes : and I am not prepared to 
say that bad fictions, or almost any thing, may not 
be better than nothing for the mind. But when 
continuous cultivation is joined to education (which 
should be the object for statesmen and governing 
people of all kinds), people will not be supposed to 
be educated at the time of their non-age, and then 
left sight of and hold of for evermore, as far as re- 
gards their betters. But it will be seen that we are 
all so far children, or at least like children in some 
respects, throughout our lives, that the means of 
cultivation should be successively offered to us. 

It is difficult to see the drift of the foregoing: words 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 99 

without an example. But what I mean is this, — 
do not let us merely teach our poor young people 
to read and write and hear about all manner of arts, 
sciences, and productions, and then dropping these 
young people at the most dangerous age, provide 
no amusements, enable them to carry on no pur- 
suits, throw open no refinements of life to them, 
show them no parks, no gardens, and leave them 
to the pothouse and their sordid homes. 
Of course they will go wrong if we do. 

III. The Remedies. 

As poverty came first among the causes, so to re- 
move it must come first among the remedies. For 
this purpose let it be carefully observed what class 
of persons furnishes most victims to this sin. Try 
and mend the evils of that class. 

There will be two kinds of poverty, the one arising 
from general inadequacy of pay for employment 
that is pretty constant ; the other from uncertainty of 
employment at particular periods. Each requires to 
be dealt with differently. Frequently, though, they 
are found combined. 

To meet the first of these evils, more work must 
be found in the country, or some hands must be re- 
moved out of it. 



lOO COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

If emigration is to be adopted, it should be done 
in a different manner from any that has yet been 
attempted. 

But it seems as if something better than, or be- 
sides, emigration might be attempted. 

It may seem romantic, but I cannot help hoping 
that considerable investigation into prices may lead 
people to ascertain better what are fair wages, and 
that purchases will not run madly after cheapness. 

There are everywhere just men who endeavor to 
prevent the price of laborers' wages from falling be- 
low what they (the just men) think right. I have 
no doubt that this has an effect upon the whole la- 
bor-market, Christianity coming in to correct politi- 
cal economy. And so, in other matters, I can conceive 
that private persons may generally become more 
anxious to put aside the evils of competition, and to 
give, as well as get, what is fair. 

But many things might be done to enable the wages 
of the poor to go further : and surely the glory of a 
state, and of the principal people in it, should be that 
men make the most of their labor in that state. 

Improvement of dwellings is one means.* 

* Many a workwoman earns but 75. a week. She has to 
pay 35. or 35. 6d. for one miserable apartment Take her 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. loi 

Improvements in the representation and transfer 
of property are other great means to this end. 

It may seem that I have wandered far from the 
subject (the great sin of great cities) to questions of 
currency and transfer of property. But I am per- 
suaded that there is the closest connection between 
subjects of this kind. The investment of savings is 
surely a question of the highest importance. But it 
is not that only which I mean. All manner of facil- 
ities should be given to the poor to become owners 
of property ; and wherever it could be managed, al- 
most in spite of themselves, they should be made 
so : that is, by putting by portions of their wages 
when it is manifestly possible for this to be done, 
as in the case of domestic sei'vants, or where the em- 
ployed are living with, or in some measure under 
the guidance of, their employers. 

Much is being attempted by various benevolent 
persons in ways of this kind ; and the greatest atten- 
tion should be paid to these experiments. 

food at 35. or 2s. 6d., and there will remain 15. a week to 
provide for clothing, sickness, charity, pleasure, and mis- 
cellaneous expenditure of all kinds. It is easy to see that 
any sudden mishap, such as sickness, must wreck such a 
person's means; and also that where lies the chief room 
for making these means go further, is in the expenditure 
for lodgings, which now consumes about half her earnings. 



I02 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

There are various things whicli the state could do 
in these matters ; but it would require a very wise 
and great government : and how is such a thing to be 
got? In the act of rising to power, men fail to obtain 
the knowledge and thought, and especially the pur- 
pose, to use power. There is some Eastern proverb, 
I think, about the meanest reptiles being found at the 
top of the highest towers. That, as applied to gov- 
ernment, is ill-natured and utterly untrue. But people 
who are swarming up a difficult ascent, or maintain- 
ing themselves with difficulty on a narrow ledge at a 
great height, are not employed exactly in the way to 
become great philosophers and reformers of mankind. 
Constitutional governments may be great blessings, 
but nobody can doubt that they have their price. 
There are, however, excellent men in high places 
amongst us at the present moment ; but timidity in 
attempting good is their portion, especially by any 
way that has not become thoroughly invincible in ar- 
gument. I suppose that any man who should try some 
very generous thing as a statesman, and should fail, 
would be irretrievably lost as a statesman. 

Meanwhile socialism is put forward to fill the void 
of government : and if government does not make 
exertion, we may yet have dire things to encounter. 
By government in the foregoing sentence I mean not 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 103 

only what we are In the habit of calling such, but all 
the governing and directing persons in a nation. 
Some of them are certainly making great efforts even 
now, and there lies our hope. 

But, supposing that the supply of workmen and 
workwomen could be better adapted to the demand ; 
and that means could be found to provide in some 
measure for neutralizing the ill effects of the un- 
certainty of employment (which two things, though 
very difficult, are still not beyond the range of hu- 
man endeavor and accomplishment), there would 
yet remain many, very many, individual cases of 
utter and sudden distress and destitution amongst 
young women, which form the chief causes of their 
fall. Now, how ai'e these to be averted? 

There should be some better means of intercom- 
munication between rich and poor than there is at 
present. It seems as if the priests of all religions 
might perform that function, and that it should be 
considered one of their most important functions. It 
should be done, if possible, by some persons who 
come amongst the poor for other purposes than to 
relieve their poverty. At the same time, there might 
be an administrative officer of high place and power 
in the government, who should be on the alert to 



I04 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

suggest and promote good offices of the kind I have 
just alluded to. In reality the Minister of educa- 
tion (if we had one) would be the real minister for 
destitution, as doing most to prevent it ; and various 
minor duties of a humane kind might devolve upon 
hiiTi. 

Any one acquainted with the annals of the poor 
will tell how familiar such words are to him as the 
following, and how true on inquiry he has found 
them. " Father fell ill of the fever " {the fever the 
poor girl may well say, for it is the fever which want 
of air and water, and working in stifling rooms, have 
brought upon many thousands of our workmen) ; 
" mother and I did pretty well in th<? straw-bonnet 
line while she lived ; but she died come April two 
years : and I've been 'most starved since then, and 
took to those ways." 

" You were fifteen when your mother died, you 
say, and you have no relations in this town ? " 

" There is my little brother, and he is in the work- 
house, and they let me go and see him on Mondays ; 
and there is my aunt, but she is a very poor woman 
and lives a long, long way oft", and has a many 
children of her own." 

" You can read and write .^ " 

"I can read a little." 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 105 

Now, of course, there are thousands of cases of 
this kind, in which one feels that the poor child has 
slipped out of the notice and care of people who 
would have been but too glad to aid her. I dare 
say neither mother nor child ever went to any church 
or chapel. And, in truth, let us be honest and 
confess that going to church in England is somewhat 
of an operation, especially to a poor, ill-clad person. 
This system of pews and places, the want of open- 
ness of churches, the length of the service resulting 
from the admixture of services, the air of over- 
cleanliness and resjDcctability which besets the place, 
and the difficulty of getting out when you hke, are 
sad hindrances to the poor, the ill-dressed, the sick, 
the timid, the fastidious, the wicked, and the culti- 
vated. 

And then, there is nobody into whose ear the poor 
girl can pour her ti'oubles, except she comes as a 
beggar. This will be said to be a leaning on my 
part to the confessional. I cannot help that ; I 
must speak the truth that is in me. And I wish that 
many amongst us Protestants, who would, I doubt 
not, welcome the duty, could, without pledging oui*- 
selves to all manner of doctrines, but merely by a 
genial use of those common relations of life which 
bring us in daily contact with the poor, fulfil much of 



Io6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

what is genuinely good in the functions of a confes- 
sor, and thus become brothers of mercy and brothers 
of charity to the poor. 

Meanwhile it is past melancholy, and verges on 
despair, to reflect upon what is going on amongst 
ministers of religion, who are often but too intent 
upon the fopperies of religion to have heart and 
time for the substantial work entrusted to them — 
immersed in heart-breaking trash from which no sect 
is free ; for here are fopperies of discipline, there 
fopperies of doctrine (still more dangerous as it 
seems to me). And yet theye are these words re- 
sounding in their ears, " Pure religion and undefiled 
is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their 
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the 
world." And the word " world," as Coleridge has 
well explained, is this order of things, the order of 
things you are in. Clerical niceness and over-sanc- 
tity, for instance, and making more and longer ser- 
mons than there is any occasion for, and insisting 
tjpon needless points of doctrine, and making Chris- 
tianity a stumbling-block to many, — that, excellent 
clergyman (for there are numbers who deserve the 
name), that is your world, there lies your tempta- 
tion to err. 

It has occurred to me that schoolmasters and 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 107 

schoolmistresses would form good means of com- 
munication with the poor: and so much the better 
from their agency being indirect as regards worldly 
affairs ; * I mean that their first business is not to 
care for the physical well-being of their pupils. In 
after life, they would be likely to know something 
of the ways and modes of life of their former pupils, 
and would be most valuable auxiliaries to landlords, 
master-manufacturers, to masters in general, and to 
all who are anxious to improve the condition of 
those under them. 

While talking of the schoolmaster, we must not 
omit to consider the immense importance, in its 
bearing on our subject, of abetter education for wo- 
men — especially for women of what are called the 
middling classes — an education which should de- 
velop in them the qualities and powers which they 
are most deficient in, such as stern reasoning ; which 
is at the foundation of justice, and which should free 
them from that absurd timidity of t/iittd more than 

* In this respect the opportunities of medical men are 
very great; and surely the medical profession best eman- 
cipates itself from any tendency to materialism, and dig- 
nifies itself by entering upon the duties and the privileges 
of a teacher and consoler, when it performs, as it very of- 
ten does, some of those offices of charity which ever lie just 
under its hands. 



Io8 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

of body, which prevents their seeing things as they 
are, and makes them, and consequently men, the 
victims of conventionahty. 

This thing, conventionahty, is a great enemy to 
those who would war against the sin we are con- 
sidering. Hypocrisy is said to be the homage which 
vice pays to virtue ; conventionality is the adoration 
which both vice and virtue offer up to worldliness. 
See its ill effects in this jiarticular case. The dis- 
cussion of our subject is almost beyond the pale of 
conventionality. Years ago, an old college friend 
defined this present writer as a man who could say 
the most audacious things with the least offence. I 
hope my friend was right, for, indeed, in discussing 
this subject I need all that power now. Conven- 
tionality stiffens up the whole figui'e and sets the 
eyes in the fixed direction it pleases, so that men 
and women can pass thi'ough the streets ignoring 
the greatest horrors which surround them. And 
consider what a dangerous thing it is, when it is 
once presumed that there is any class with whom 
we can have no s}'mpathy ; that there are any beings 
of a different kind from the rest of us. It is not for 
us, collections of dust, to feel contempt. In a future 
life we may have such a survey as may justify con- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 109 

tempt, but then we should have too much love to 
feel it. But, indeed, in most cases, it is not con- 
tempt, but conventionality, that induces us to pass by 
and ignore what it is not consistent with good taste 
to know any thing about. 

But there is another fertile mode in which conven- 
tionality works in increasing the great sin of great 
cities. And that is by rendering all manner of im- 
aginary wants real wants, and thus helping to en- 
slave men and women. False shame has often, I 
doubt not, led to the worst consequences, — the 
shame, for instance, arising from not having the 
clothes of a kind imagined to be fit for a particular 
station ; and so, people submit to a vice to satisfy a 
foible. 

A class of persons who are found to furnish great 
numbers of the victims to the sin we are considering, 
is that of domestic servants. This leads to a suspi- 
cion that there are peculiar temptations, weaknesses, 
errors, and mismanagement incident to that class. 
Their education, to begin with, is wretchedly defec- 
tive. But besides that, they are particularly liable 
to the slavery of conventionality : indeed, there are 
few people more subdued by weak notions of what 
it is correct for them to have, and to be, and to do : 



no COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

which often ends in any thing but a correspondence 
of the reality of their condition with their ideal. It 
must be I'emembered, too, that they undergo, in an 
especial degree, the temptation of being brought 
near to a class superior to theirs in breeding and 
niceness ; and, consequently, that they are very liable 
to be discontented with their own. 

But great improvement might be made in the man- 
agement of servants. Their efforts to save money 
should be directed and aided. New means might 
be invented for that purpose. It might be much 
more generally arranged than it is, both in house- 
holds and in other establishments, that a fund should 
be formed out of which those female servants who 
remained a certain time should have a sum of mon- 
ey, in fact what in official life is called " retired al- 
lowances." 

Then, of course, masters and mistresses should 
recognize the fact, instead of needlessly discourag- 
ing it, that men and women love one another in all 
ranks, — that Mary, if a pleasant or comely girl, is 
pretty nearly sin*e at some time or other to have a 
lover. Let the master and mistress be aware of that 
fact, and treat it as an open question which may be 
discussed sometimes, with advantage to all parties. 

Instead of such conduct, one hears sometimes that 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. in 

such maxims are laid down as that " no followers 
are allowed." What does a lady mean who lays 
down such a law in her household? Perhaps she 
subscribes to some abolition society ; which is a good 
thing in as far as it cultivates her kindly feelings 
towards an injured race. But does she know that, 
by this law of hers, as applied to her own house- 
hold, she is imitating, in a humble way, one of the 
worst things connected with slavery ? 

As this prohibition extends to near relations as 
well as to lovers, if obeyed it renders the position 
of a servant-girl still more perilous as more isolat- 
ed ; and, if disobeyed, it is a fertile source of the 
habit of concealment, one of the worst to which all 
persons in a subordinate situation are prone. 

For my own part, I could not bear to live with 
servants who were to see none of their friends and 
relations : I should feel I was keeping a prison, and 
not ruling a household. 

Amongst the principal remedies must be reckoned, 
or at least hoped for, an improveinent in men as 
regards this sin. To hope for such an improve- 
ment will be looked upon as chimerical by some 
persons, and the notion of introducing great moral 
remedies for the evil in question as wholly romantic. 



113 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

It seems impossible: every new. and great thing 

does, till it is done ; and then the only wonder is 

that it was not done long ago. 

Oh that there were more love in the world, and 

then these things that we deplore could not be. One 

would think that the man who had once loved any 

woman, would have some tenderness for all. And 

love implies an infinite respect. All that was said 

or done by Chivalry of old, or sung by Troubadours, 

but shadows forth the feeling which is in the heart 

of any one who loves. Love, like the opening of 

the heavens to the Saints, shows for a moment, even 

to the dullest man, the possibilities of the human 

race. He has foith, hope, and charity for another 

being, perhaps but a creation of his imagination : 

still it is a great advance for a man to be profoundly 

loving even in his imaginations. What Shelley 

makes Apollo exclaim. Love might well say too : — 

"I am the eje with which the Universe 
Beholds itself and knows itself divine; 
All harmony of instrument or verse, 

All prophecj-, all medicine are mine, 
All light of art or nature ; — to my song 
Victory and praise in their own right belong." 

Indeed, love is a thing so deep and so beautiful, 
that each man feels that nothing but conceits and 
pretty words have been said about it by other men. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 113 

And tlien to come down from this and to dishonor 
the image of the thing so loved. No man could do 
so while the memory of love was in his mind. And, 
indeed, even without these recollections, we might 
hope that, on the contemplation of so much ruin, 
and the consideration of the exquisite beauty of the 
thing spoiled, there would sometimes come upon 
the heart of a man a pity so deep as to protect him 
from this sin as much as aversion itself could do. 
And we may imagine that even men of outrageous 
dissipation, but who have still left some greatness 
and fineness of mind (like Mirabeau for example), 
will have a horror of the sin we are condemning, 
though very sinful in other respects. And certainly 
the disgrace to humanity that there is in indiscrim- 
inate prostitution is appalling : and, like constrained 
marriage for money, it has something more x"epul- 
sive about it than is to be met with in things that 
may be essentially more wicked. 

I hope I am not uncharitable in saying this ; but 
anybody who thinks so must remember that what 
is alluded to by me is the worst form of the sin in 
question ; as in fact it disgraces the streets of our 
principal cities — in utter lovelessness and mercenary 
recklessness. 



8 



114 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

I said above, " the exquisite beauty of the thing 
spoiled." And, in truth, how beautiful a thing is 
youth — beautiful in an animal. In contemplating 
it, the world seems young again for us. Each young 
thing seems born to new hopes. Parents feel this 
for their children, hoping that something will happen 
to them quite different from what happened to them- 
selves. They would hardly take all the pains they 
do with these young creatures, if they could believe 
that the young people were only to grow up into 
middle-aged men and women with the usual cares 
and troubles descending upon them like a securely 
entailed inheritance. There is something fanciful in 
all this, and in reality a grown-up person is a much 
more valuable and worthy creature than most yovmg 
ones ; but still any thing that blights the young 
must ever be most repugnant to humanity. 

I had now read over all that I had put down in 
writing ; and, as I laid aside the manuscript, I felt 
how sadly it fell short of what I had thought to say 
on this subject. I suppose, however, that even when 
they are good, a man's words seem poor to himself, 
for the workman is too familiar with the wrong side 
of all his workmanship. Moreover, much must 
always lie in the ear of the hearer. We say enough 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 115 

to set alight the hidden trains of thought which abide 
in the recesses of men's hearts, unknown to them ; 
and they are startled into thinking for themselves. 
After all, it is not often so requisite for a writer to 
make things logically clear to men, as to put them 
into the mood he wishes to have them in. I sup- 
pose the snake-charmer and the horse-whisperer 
have some such scheme. 

But, said I, as I threw some stones into a pool 
which was near me in a partial clearing of the wood, 
I would go on with this work if I knew that all my 
eflbrts would make no more stir than these pebbles 
in that pool. And then I proceeded to think of the 
topics which are yet before me, full of doubt and 
difficulty. I should like to have some talk with 
EUesmere, I exclaimed ; I fear he will have no 
sympathy with me, and an utter disbelief in anybody 
doing any good in this matter. But he is a shrewd 
man of the world, and he speaks out fearlessly. It 
would be well to hear his remarks beforehand, 
while they may yet be of use to me. I certainly 
will consult him. 

I stept out of the wood into the beaten road, a 
change which I always feel to be like that which 
occurs in the mind of a man who, having been 
wrapt in some romance of his own, suddenly disen- 



Il6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

gages himself from it and talks with his fellows 
upon the ordinary topics of the day, affecting a 
shrewd care about the price of corn and the state 
of our foreign relations. 

By the time I reached Worth-Ash ton I had left 
all forest thoughts well behind me, and was quite 
at home on the broad beaten road of common-place 
affairs. 



CHAPTER VII. 

T HAVE read the foregoing notes to Ellesmere, 
whom I asked to come here the first lawyer's 
holiday that he could make. During the reading, 
which was in my study, he said nothing, but seemed, 
as I thought, unusually grave and attentive. When 
it was finished, he proposed that we should walk 
out upon the downs. Still he made no remark, 
but strolled on moodily, until I said to him, " I am 
afraid, Ellesmere, you have some heavy brief which 
sits upon your mind just now ; or, perhaps, I have 
somewhat wearied you in reading so much to you 
upon a subject about which you probably do not 
care much." " I care more than you do," he re- 
plied — " forgive my abruptness, Milverton, but 
what I say is true. To show you vv^hy I do care 
would be to tell you a long story, and to betray to 
you that which I had never intended to tell mortal 
man. 

"• But, if you care to hear it, I will tell you ; it 
bears closely upon some of your views, and may 
modify them in some way. I can talk to you on 
such a theme better than to almost any man, for it 



Il8 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

is like talking to a philosophic system ; and yet 
there is still some humanity left in you, so that one 
may hope for a little sympath}^ now and then with- 
out having too much, or being afflicted with pity 
and wonder and foolish exclamations of any kind." 
I did not interrupt him to defend myself, being too 
anxious to hear what he had to say. Besides I saw 
this attack upon me was partly an excuse to himself 
for telling me something which he hardly meant to 
tell. He thi-ew himself down upon the turf, and, 
after a few minutes' silence, thus began : — 

Well, I was once upon my travels staying for a 
few days in a German town, not a very obscure or 
a very renowned one ; but indeed the whereabouts 
is a very unimportant matter, and I do not particu- 
larize any of the minute circumstances of my story, 
because I do not wish hereafter to be reminded of 
them. I remember it was on a Sunday, and the 
day was fine. I remember, too, I went to church, 
to a Protestant church, where I did not understand 
much of what I heard, but liked what I did. They 
sang psalms, such as I fancy Luther would have 
approved of; and I thought it would be a serious 
thing for a hostile army to meet a body of men who 
had been thus singing. Grand music, such as you, 



COMPANIONS OF M7 SOLITUDE. 119 

for instance, would like better, is a good thing too. 
Our cathedrals might have combined both. I do 
not know why I tell you all this, for it does not im- 
mediately concern my story, but I suppose it is 
because I do not like to approach it too quickly, and 
I must linger on the details of a day which is so 
deeply imprinted upon my memory. I remember 
well the sermon, or rather the bits of it which I 
understood, and out of which I made my sermon 
for myself. That pathetic word verloren (lost) 
occurred many times. Then there was a great deal 
about the cares of this life occupying so much time, 
and then about the pleasures, or the thoughts of 
misspent youth being impressed upon manhood, to 
the perennial detriment of the character. I made 
out, or fancied I did, that it was a sermon showing 
how short a time was given to spiritual life. I dare 
say it was a very common-place sermon that I made 
of it ; but somehow, the sermons we preach to our- 
selves, in which, by the way, we can be sure of 
taking the most apt illustrations from the store of 
our own follies, are always interesting. And when 
the good preacher, a most benign and apostolic- 
looking man, pronounced the benediction, I felt as 
if I had been hearing some friendly searching words 
which might well be laid to heart. After the ser- 



I20 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

mon was over, I strolled about. The day moved 
on, and towards evening time, I went with the 
stream of the towns-people, gentle and simple, to 
some public gardens which lay outside the town and 
were joined to it by beautiful walks. People speak 
of the sadness of being in a crowd and knowing no 
one. There is something pleasurable in it too. I 
wandered amongst the various groups of quiet, 
decorous, beer-imbibing Germans, who, in family- 
parties, had come out to these gardens to drink 
their beer, smoke their pipes, and hear some music. 
In those unfortunate regions they have not made a 
ghastly idol of the Sunday. 

At last I sat down at a table where a young girl 
and a middle-aged woman, who carried a baby, were 
refreshing themselves with some very thin potation. 
They looked poor decent people. I soon entered 
into conversation with them, and therefore did not 
leave it long a matter of doubt that I was an Eng- 
lishman. I perceived that something was wrong 
with my friends, although I could not comprehend 
what it was. I could see that the girl could hardly 
restrain herself from bursting into tears ; and there 
was something quite comical in the delight she ex- 
pressed at some feats on the tight-rope, which she 
would insist upon my looking at, and her then, in a 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 12 1 

minute afterwards, returning to her quiet distress 
and anxious deplorable countenance. A proud 
English girl would have kept all her misery Under 
due control, especially in a public place ; but these 
Germans are a more simple natural people. 

Having by degrees established some relations be- 
tween the party and myself by ordering some coffee 
and handing it round, and then letting the baby play 
with my watch, I asked what it was that ailed the 
girl. The girl turned round and poured out a tor- 
rent of eloquence, which, however, considerably ex- 
ceeding the pace at which any foreign language 
enters into my apprehension, was totally lost upon 
me ; except that I perceived she had some com- 
plaint against somebody, and that she had a noble 
open countenance which, from long experience of 
the witness-box, I felt was telling me an unusual 
proportion of truth. One part of the discourse I 
perceived very clearly to be about money, and as 
she touched her gown (which was very neat and 
nice), it had something to do with the price of the 
said gown. 

We then talked of England, whereupon she asked 
me to take her with me as a servant. This abrupt 
speech might astonish some persons : but not those 
who have travelled much. I dare say the same re- 
quest has often been made to you, Milverton. 



122 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Milverton, Oh, yes. They fancy this is an earth- 
ly paradise for getting money, bounded by a contin- 
ual fog. 

Ellesmere. She then questioned me much as to 
the distance of England from where we were. And 
as I saw she was in a desperate mood, and might 
attempt some desperate adventure, I took care to 
explain to her the distance and the difficulties of 
the journey. Besides which, I contrived, putting 
the severest pressure on my stock of German, to 
convey to her that London was rather an extensive 
town, containing two millions of people, and that it 
was not exactly the place for an unfriended young 
girl to be wandering about. 

" The same thing everywhere, everywhere," she 
exclaimed, in a tone of mournful reproach, which I 
felt was levelled at our unchivalrous sex in general. 

I felt interested to understand her story, and be- 
ginning to question her in detail again, ascertained 
so far, that she was or had been a servant, that she 
had been accustomed to take charge of children, 
having had eleven under her charge, that the wages 
were most wretched, which they certainly were ; 
but still, it was not that or any of the ordinary kind 
of grievances which was now distressing her. When- 
ever we came to the gist of the discourse, she be- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 



123 



came moi-e emphatic and I more stupid. At last I 
bethought me that if she were to write out what 
she had to say, I could then understand it well 
enough. This was a bright idea, and one which I 
was able to convey to her. She was to bring me 
the writing on the ensuing morning in the great 
square. And having come to this agreement we 
parted ; I taking care, with lawyer-like caution, to 
tell her that I did not know whether I could be of 
any use to her, with other discouraging expressions. 

The next morning, duly fortified with my pocket 
dictionary, I sat myself down to read her statement. 
Ah, how clearly the whole scene is before me. It 
was on a broad bench, close to a hackney-coach 
stand, within sight of the palace. She looked over 
me and read aloud ; and when I could not make 
out a word, we paused, and the dictionary was put 
in requisition. The nearest hackney-coachman ly- 
ing back on his box threw now and then an amused 
glance at the proceeding. Hers was a simple 
touching story, touchingly told. I now know every 
word, every letter of it ; but then it was very hard 
for me to comprehend. 

It began by giving her birth, parentage, and edu- 
cation. She was born of poor parents in the coun- 
try, a few miles out of the town. She was now an 



124 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

orphan. She had come uito service in the town. 
Her master had endeavored to seduce her ; but she 
had succeeded in giving some notion of her misera- 
ble position to a middle-aged man, and friend of her 
family, who had taken an interest in her, and prom- 
ised to receive her into his service. Then she gave 
warning to her mistress, who could not imagine 
the cause, and was displeased at her leaving. She 
could not tell her mistress for fear of vexing her. 

The character given by the mistress (which I saw) 
went well with this statement, as it was the praise 
of a person displeased. 

The new master that was to be, had told her 
where to go to (the lodgings where she was now 
staying), and ordered her to get decent clothes be- 
fore coming into his service. He did not live in 
that town. She left her place accordingly, provided 
herself with the necessary things, and awaited his 
orders. Meanwhile his plans were changed. He 
had just married, was probably about to travel, and 
, wrote that he could not take her in. I am not sure 
that there was any deliberate wrong-doing or ti'each- 
ery on his part — merely a wicked carelessness; 
forgetting what a thing it is for a poor girl to be out 
of place, and not knowing that she had taken the 
step, perhaps, at the time he wrote. She had writ- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 12$ 

ten again, and had received no answer. She was 
left in debt and in the utmost distress. 

This is the substance of what I eventually got out 
by cross-examination. She had been out into the 
suburbs in search of a place when I met her yester- 
day. The woman with the child, who was no rela- 
tion, had reiterated to me there that she was a good 
girl and in great distress. 

The usual wicked easy way of getting out of her 
difficulties had been pressed upon her — Ich mag" 
das Geld nicht auf eine schlechte Art bekommen^ 
sonst wiu'de ich es ifi kzirzer Zeit habcji ; but she 
trusted that "the dear God would never permit this, 
so she put her trust in him." Ich hoffe aber^ der 
liebe Gott wird das nicht zugeben^ den7z ich ver- 
lasse mich auf I hit. 

I remember that, occasionally, while we were 
spelling over what she had written, her large beau- 
tiful hand (do not smile, Milverton, a hand may be 
most beautiful and yet large) rested on the page. 
There was a deep scar upon it, the mark of a burn, 
that told of some household mishap. I have seen 
many beautiful hands before and after, but none so 
beautiful to me. 

At last we got through the writing and paused. 
" This is a bad business," I exclaimed ; and 



126 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

then I fell into a reverie, not upon her particular 
v-ase so much, as upon the misery that there is in 
the world. At last I looked up and felt quite re- 
morseful at the wistful agonized expression of the 
girl, whom I had been keeping in suspense all this 
time while indulging my own thoughts. She evi- 
dently thought (you know the extremely careless ill- 
dressed figure I generally am) that to assist her was 
quite out of my power. And so it was at the mo- 
inent, for I had not the requisite silver about me. 
Indeed why should the rich carry any money about 
with them, when they have always the poor to bor- 
row it from } However, I had some silver in my 
pocket and gave her that, 2:)romising to bring the 
rest. Her ecstasy was unbounded : of course she 
began to cry (no woman is above that) ; though 
seeing my excessive dislike to that proceeding, she 
did the best to suppress it, only indulging in an oc- 
casional sob. Her first idea was what she could do 
for the money. She would work for any time. We 
had found out that writing was better than talking ; 
and here are her very words (I always carry them 
about with me), " Was soil icJi Ihnen fiir einen 
Dienst dafiir thun?" " What shall I do for you 
in the way of any service for this?" "Nothing," 
I replied, " but only to be a good girl." 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 127 

One thing I have omitted to tell you : but I may 
as well tell it. It is no matter now. While we 
were reading over the letter, I happened to ask her 
whether she had a lover. I had hardly asked the 
question before I would have given any thing to 
have been able to recall it, as we sometimes do in 
Court when a question is objected to. Her simple 
answer came crushing into my ears, "Yes, but a 
poor man and far away." She thought my object 
in asking was to ascertain whether there was any 
help to be got from any other quarter : this she an- 
swered, so like her sensible self, without any bri- 
dling-up or nonsense of any kind — a simple answer 
to a simple question. But the words went down 
like a weight into my heart, which has never been 
quite lifted off again. In short, Milverton, I loved. 

What should possess me to-day to tell you this 
wild story, I know not. I know you really care for 
nothing but great interests and great causes, as you 
call them. With intense mad love for any one hu- 
man being you cannot sympathize. I always noted 
the same in you from your boyhood upwards. Talk 
to you of a body of men — of a class — of a mil- 
lion, for instance, of people suffering any thing, and 
you are immediately interested. But for anyone of 
us you care nothing. I see through you, and always 



128 COMPANIONS OF M7 SOLITUDE. 

have. But I like you. Do not answer me, you 
know it is true. 

I did not answer him ; though knowing what he 
said to be most untrue, and yet to have just that dash 
of plausibiHty in it which makes injustice so hard to 
unraveL He proceeded. I saw Gretchen (that was 
her name) more than once again, and had a great 
deal of talk with her, finding my first impressions 
amply verified ; and I still think her one of the best 
intellects, and most beautiful natui'es, I have ever 
seen. I had in my pocket a very learned letter from 
one of the German Professors of law to whom I had 
delivered a letter of introduction on passing through 
his town, on some points of jurisprudence, referring 
to Savigny's work. The parts of this which had been 
unintelligible I made her construe to me ; some of it 
was quite independent of technicalities, but merely 
required hard thinking and clear explanation. The 
gii^l with my help made it all out. But of course it 
was not of such themes that she liked to talk ; for 
women love personal talk, and their care is to know, 
not what men think about, but what they feel. One 
speech of hers dwells in my mind. " You must be 
veiy happy at home," she said. I thought of my 
mouldy chambers and the kind of life I lead, and 
replied with an irony I could not check, " Very : " 
and so satisfied her gentle questionings. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 139 

I did not delay my departure longer than I had at 
first intended ; for in these cases when you have done 
any good, it is well to be sure you do not spoil it in 
an}- way. She would not have any more money than 
a trifling sum that was a little more than sufficient to 
pay oft" the debts already due, and they amounted 
to the very same sum she had originally mentioned 
to me in the gardens. We parted. Before parting 
she begged me to tell her my name : then timidly she 
kissed my hand ; and, bursting into tears, threw her 
hood over her face and hurried away a little distance. 
Afterwards I saw her turn to watch the departure of 
the huge diligence in which I had ensconced myself. 
Milverton. And you never saw her any more."* 
Ellesmere. Once more. Not being a philosopher 
or a philanthropist, I do not easily forget those I once 
care for, I studied how to protect her in every way. 
I mastered the politics of that German town ; and 
learnt all the intricacies of the little Court there. I 
ascertained every thing respecting our relations with 
it, and who amongst our diplomatists was desirous of 
the residence there, when there should be a change. 
I busied myself more in politics than I had done ; 

and I believe I must own that my speech on the 

intervention, which had its merits and cost me great 
labor, was spoken for Gretchen. Of course, I need 
9 



130 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

hardly say that I spoke only what I most sincerely 
thought ; but I should probably have let politics 
alone but for her sake. At last there was an oppor- 
tunity of a new appointment being made of a Minister 
to that German Court; and the man who wished for 
it, and whose just claims I had aided as I best could, 
obtained it. His wife, Lady R., one of those brilliant 
women of the world who are often more amiable 
than we give them credit for being, had long noticed 
the care with which I had cultivated her society. She 
imagined it was for one of her beautiful daughters, 
and did not look unkindly upon me. Before she 

went to reside at I undeceived her, telling her 

the whole truth (the best thing in such a case) and 
binding her to secrecy. She promised to look out 
for Gretchen, and to take her into her household. I 
told Lady R. that Gretchen had a lover, and said, 
that if any thing could be done for him, without lift- 
ing him out of his rank, it should be. Neither would 
I have Gretchen made any thing different from what 
she was. I could have given her money by hand- 
fuls ; but that is not the way to serve people. At 
the same time I implored Lady R. to let me know 
immediately in case any thing should ever occur to 
break off the marriage. 

Milverton. And you would have put in your suit 
and married this girl ? 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 131 

JEllesmere. There was but little chance, I fear ; 
but you may be sin^e no opportunity would have 
escaped me. As for the world, I am one of the 
few persons who really care but little for It. The 
hissing of collected Europe, provided I knew the 
hissers could not touch me, would be a grateful 
sound ratlier than the reverse — that is, if heard at a 
reasonaD.e distance. 

Well, but I told you I saw Gretchen once more. 
Yes, once more. You may remember that some time 
ago I had a very severe illness, and was not able to 
attend the Courts on an occasion when I was much 
wanted. This appeared in the newspapers of the 
day, and so, I conjecture, came to the knowledge of 
Gretchen ; who, in her quiet indefatigable way, had 
learnt English, and was a great student, as I after- 
wards heard, of English newspapers. She had also 
contrived to learn more about my life than I chose 
to tell her when I answered her question about 
my being happy ; and the poor girl had formed 
juster notions of the joyousness and comfort of a 
lawyer's chambers in London. She begged for 
leave of absence to visit a sick friend : Lady R. 
conjectured, I believe, where she was going, and 
consented. 

A few days afterwards there was a knock at my 



132 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

door (I was still very ill and unable to leave my 
sitting-room, but solacing life as best I could by the 
study of a great pedigree-case), w^hen my clerk, w^ith 
an anxious and ashamed countenance, put his head 
in, made one of these queer faces which he does 
when he thinks a great bore is wishing to see me and 
that I had better say " no," and exclaimed, " A 
young woman from Germany, sir, wants to see you." 
I knew, instinctively, who it was, but had the pres- 
enceof mind to make a gesture signifying I would not 
see her (for I could not have spoken), and I was 
afraid in my present state of weakness I should be- 
tray myself in some way, if I were to see her unpre- 
pared. While the parleying was going on in the 
passage, I collected myself sufficiently to ring for m}' 
clerk and tell him, he might appoint the young wo- 
man to come in the afternoon. By that time I had 
reflected upon my part and was somewhat of myself 
again. She came : I scolded and protested ; she did 
nothing in reply, but look at me and say how thin I 
was ; and there was no resisting the quiet, affection- 
ate, discreet way in which she installed herself every 
day for some hours as head nurse. Even my old 
laundress I'elaxed so far as to say that Gradgin (for 
that was what she called her) was a good girl and not 
hoity-toity : and my clerk, Peter, a very cantankerous 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 133 

fellow, was heard to remark, that for his part he did 
not like young women much, but Miss Gradgin was 
better than most, and certainly his master did 
somehow eat more of any thing made by her than by 
anybody else, and never threatened now to throw the 
chicken-broth he brought in at his head. 

I jest at these things, Milverton : and in truth 
what remains for us often in this world but to jest? 
Which of the Qiieens was it, by the way, who on 
the scaffold played with the sharpness of the axe, and 
said something droll about her little neck ? Well, I 
jest ; but this visit of Gretchen's was a very severe 
trial to me. It is a common trial though, I dare say. 
No doubt many a person dotes upon or adores some 
one else, who is, happily, as unconscious of the 
doting or adoration as Ram Dass, or any other 
heathen deity, of the fanatic love of his worshippers. 
To the loving person, however, it is .like walking 
over hot iron with no priest-anointed feet, and yet 
with unmoved countenance, not even allowed to look 
stoical. I could not resist listening sometimes to 
Gretchen's wise, innocent, pleasant talk about all 
the new things she was seeing ; and perhaps if I had 
not kept carefully before me the claims of the absent 
peasant lover, some day when she was moving about 
me like sunlight in the room, I might in some 



134 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

moment of frenzy, which T should never have for- 
given myself, have thrown myself at her feet and 
asked her to take these dingy chambers and my faded 
self and all my belongings under her permanent con- 
trol. But wiser, sterner, juster thoughts prevailed. 
I got better, and it was time for Gretchen to be 
thinking of going. Of course no foreigner can leave 
London without seeing the Thames Tunnel ; and I 
observed that the morose Peter, though in general 
very contemptuous of sight-seeing and sight-seers, 
was wonderfully ready to escort Gretchen to see the 
Tunnel, which I thought a great triumph on her part. 
I spared myself the anguish of parting with her : a 
case came on rather unexpectedly in a distant part of 
the country, and I was sent for " special," as we say. 
Kings and tetrarchs might have quarrelled for what I 
cared ; I would not have meddled in their feuds to 
lose one hour of Gretchen's sweet companionship, 
if I might have had it heartily and fairly ; but, as 
things were, I thought this a famous opportunity for 
making my escape without a parting. And so I 
started suddenly for the North, bidding Gretchen 
adieu by letter, expressing all my gratitude for her 
attention, and being able to rule and correct my ex- 
pressions as it seemed good to me. Before I returned 
she had left, taking leave of me in a fond kind letter, 



COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 135 

in which she blamed me much for being so regard- 
less of my health, and added a few words about my 
evident anxiety to get rid of her, which sounded to 
me like some wild strain of irony. Ever since, my 
chambei"s have seemed to me very different from what 
they were before : I would not quit them for a palace. 
One or two new articles of furniture were bought by 
Gretchen, who effected a kind of quiet revolution in 
my dusky abode. These are my household gods. 

One of her alterations I must tell you. You know 
my love for light and warmth ; like that of an Asiatic 
long exiled in a Northern country, whose calenture 
is not of green fields, but of sufficient heat and light 
once more to bathe in. Well, Gretchen soon found 
out, my likings ; and this was one of her plans to 
gratify me and make me well. My principal room 
has a window to the south-west, a bay-window, or 
rather a window in a bayed recess. After ascertain- 
ing, as well as she could, from Peter what were the 
limits throughout the year of the sun's appearance 
on the walls of this recess, on a sudden one morning 
Gretchen came in with a workman and two antique 
looking-glasses of the proper size, which (a present 
of her own, and taxing her resources highly) she 
fixed one on each side of the recess, from whence 
they have ever since thrown a reflected light into the 



136 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

room, which makes it feel at times uncomfortable, 
like an ill-dressed person in a great company. It 
is a trifling thing to mention to you, but very char- 
acteristic of her. 

I have said nothing to you, Milverton, which can 
describe herself; and, indeed, I always look upon 
all descriptions of women, in books and elsewhere, 
as having something mean, poor, and sensuous 
about them. I may tell you that she always, from 
the first time I saw her, reminded me a little of the 
bust of Cicero. She had the same delicate critical 
look, though she was what you would call a great 
large girl. She might have been a daughter of his 
if he had married, what he would have called, a 
barbarian German woman. In nature, she has often 
recalled to me Jeanie Deans, only that she has 
more tenderness. She would have spoken falsely 
(I am sorry to say) for Effie ; and would have died 
of it. 

Lady R., when she was over here some little time 
ago, said to me, to comfort me, I suppose, that 
though Gretchen was a sweet girl, she did not quite 
see what there was in her to make her so attractive 
to a man like me. But these women do not always 
exactly understand one another, or appreciate what 
makes them dear to particular men. She added, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 137 

" But still I do not know how it was Gretchen 
became the great authority in our household : they 
all referred to her about every thing, and she did a 
good deal of their work." In fact, she was the 
personification of common sense ; only that what 
we mean by common sense is apt to be hard, over- 
wise, and disagreeable : hers was the common sense 
of a romantic person, and of one who had great 
perception of the humorous. I think I hear her 
low, long-continued, dimpling laugh as I used to put 
forth some of my odd theories about men and things, 
to hear what she would say. And she generally 
did say something fully to the purpose. But action 
was her forte. There was a noiseless,- soft activity 
about her like that of light. 

Milverton. You speak of her as if she were 
dead. Is it so? 

Ellesjnere. No: much the same thing, — mar- 
ried. There was an opportunity for advancing her 
lover. It was done, not without my knowledge. 
She had by this time saved some money. They 
were married six months ago. I sent the wedding 
gown. Do not let us talk any more about it. I tell 
it you to show you how deeply I care about your 
subject ; for sometimes I think with terror, as I go 
along the streets, that but for my pi-ovidential inter- 



138 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

ference, Gretchen might have been like one of those 
tawdry girls who pass by me. Yes, she might. I 
observed that she had a pure horror of debt : and 
I do not know that circumstances might not have 
been too strong for her virtue. For by nature vir- 
tuous, if ever woman was, she was. 

Ellesmere was silent for a few minutes. Then he 
said, " Let us have no more of this talk to-day, or, 
indeed, at any time, unless I should begin the sub- 
ject. One of the greatest drawbacks upon making 
any confidence is that, as regards that topic, you 
have then lost the royal privilege of beginning the 
discourse about yourself, and another can begin to 
speak to you, or to think (and you know that he is 
thinking), about the matter, when you do not wish 
to be so much as thought of by any one." 

He then began to speak about some chemical 
expei-iments which he wanted me to try ; and from 
that went on to talk about infusoria, wishing me to 
undertake some microscopical investigations to con- 
firm, or disprove, a certain theory of his ; adding, 
by way of inducement, " These lower forms and 
orders of life ought, you know, to be very interest- 
ing to people in the country, who themselves, in 
comparison with us, the inhabitants of towns, can 
only, by courtesy, and for want of more precise and 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 139 

accurate language, be said to live. In fact, theii* 
existence is entirely molluscous." Thus, in his 
usual jeering way, he concluded a walk which left 
me with matter for meditation for many a solitary 
ramble over the downs, which we then traversed 
on our way homewards. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

TT is not often in the course of our lives, especially 
after we have passed our nonage, that we can 
reckon upon being thoroughly undisturbed and free 
to think of what we like for a given time. It is one 
of the advantages of travelling in a carriage alone, 
that it affords an admirable opportunity for thinking. 
The trees, the houses, the farm-yards, the woods flit 
by, and form a sort of silent chorus from the out- 
ward world. There is a sense of power in over- 
coming distance at no expense of muscular exertion 
of one's own, which is not without an elevating and 
inspiriting influence upon the thoughts. The first 
thing, however, is, that we are pretty nearly sure of 
being undisturbed. The noise around us is a meas- 
ured one, and is accounted for ; it does not, there- 
fore, fret the most nervous person. Dr. Johnson 
thought that travelling in a post-chaise with a pretty 
woman was one of the highest delights in life. 
Very ungallantly I venture to suggest that the pretty 
woman had better be omitted. She will talk some- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 141 

times, and break the whole charm, thus preventing 
you even from thinking about her. 

Having such notions of the high merits apper- 
taining to the inside of a post-chaise in motion ; in 
fact, considering it a place which, for the research 
of truth, may be put in competition with the groves 
of Academus, it was with some pleasure that I 
found myself alone in the carriage which had con- 
veyed Ellesmere to the neighboring railway station 
on his return to town. It was the first time since 
our walk to the downs that I had had to myself, 
and been able to think over all that he had then 
told me. He was right in saying that his story bore 
close reference to the subject I have been consid- 
ering. That such a man should find so much to 
attach himself to in this poor Gei'man girl, who 
might so easily have been found in a very difterent 
situation, makes one think with dismay how some 
of the sweetest and highest natures amongst women 
may be in the ranks of those who are abandoned to 
the rude address of the coarsest and vilest of men. 
I say " some of the sweetest and highest natures," 
for there is a cultivation in women quite independ- 
ent of literary culture, rank, and other advantages. 
They are more on a level with each other than men. 
I do not reckon this as a proof of their excellence : 



142 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

nor do I at all indulge in the fancy that there is 
something so pecidiarly charming in uncultivated 
people. On the contrary, they are seldom just, sel- 
dom tolerant ; and, as regards innocence and child- 
like nature, these merits abound in persons the 
most cultivated, and even the most conversant with 
the v\^orld. I have no doubt we all appear simple 
and unsophisticated enough to superior beings. It 
is not, therefore, that I mean to laud the innocence 
and naivete of ignorance : but only to point out 
that there is a certain platform, as it were, of grace 
and unselfishness, — of tact, delicacy, and teacha- 
bleness — on which I have no doubt an immense 
number of women are placed, which makes any 
corruption of such high capabilities the more to be 
regretted. 

Dunsford, in his Friends in Council., has failed 
in representing Ellesmere, if he has not shown him 
to be a most accomplished man and a thorough 
gentleman ; not exactly the conventional gentleman, 
but a man whom savages would certainly take to be 
a chief in his own country, showing high courtesy 
to others with a sort of coolness as regards himself: 
the result of being free from many of the usual small 
shames, petty ends, trivial vanities, and masked 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 143 

social operations which dwarf men in their inter- 
course with others, or make them like clowns daubed 
over in ugly patches. His pursuits, as may have 
been seen, are on a larger sphere than those of most 
lawyers. Very observant, too, of the world, I have 
scarcely a doubt he was right in his high apprecia- 
tion of that girl's character. 

We sometimes think we have no romance left ; 
but with all our borrowed ways of thinking, our 
foolish imitative habits, our estimations grosser than 
those of Portia's disappointed suitors, some of us 
occasionally do still look at things and people as 
they are. And that alone produces romance enough. 

I wonder whether Gretchen had any love for him ! 
Alas, I suspect, from a fond wistful way in which I 
once saw Lucy look at him, that there is an English 
girl who would mightily like to occupy Gretchen's 
place in his heart. But he casts not a thought at 
her : such is the perversity of things. 

But I must turn from thinking about Ellesmere to 
the consideration of my subject, which is favored by 
this quiet moment and this retired spot. It seems 
to me that the best thing I can do will be, not so 
much to seek for new arguments and new views, as 
to strengthen and enlighten those already put for- 
ward in a preceding chapter. 



144 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

I spoke, for instance, there of the cause that 
poverty was of this sin. Now women do not 
equally partake with men in the general poverty in 
a land, but they have to endure an undue propor- 
tion of it, by reason of many employments being 
closed to them ; so that the sex which is least able 
and least fitted to seek for employment by going 
from home, finds the means of employment at home 
most circumscribed. 

I cannot but think that this is a mismanagement 
which has proceeded, like many others, from a wrong 
appreciation of women's powers. If they were told 
that they could do many more things than they do, 
they would do them. As at present educated, they 
are, for the most part, thoroughly deficient in method. 
But this surely might be remedied by training. To 
take a very humble and simple instance. Why is it 
that a man-cook is always better than a woman-cook .'* 
Simply because a man is more methodical in his 
arrangements, and relies more upon his weights and 
measures. An eminent physician told me, that he 
thought that women were absolutely deficient in the 
appreciation of time. But this I hold to be merely 
one instance of their general want of accuracy ; for 
which there are easy remedies : that is, easy if begun 
early enough. Now it does seem perfectly ludicrous 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 145 

that in the dispensing of women's gear they should 
need the intervention of men. I dare say there is 
some good reason for the present practice, some 
advantage gained ; but I should think it likely that 
this advantage would be far more than counter- 
balanced by the advantage of employing women 
altogether in these transactions. 

Again, in the processes of the arts, and in many 
ways which I have not time or space to enter upon, 
women might be provided with new sources of em- 
ployment, if they were properly trained. 

But the truth is, there is a great want of ingenuity 
and arrangement throughout the world in not pro- 
viding employment for its unemployed, both men 
and women. Things that imperatively want to be 
done stare you in the face at every corner. 

If we consider the nature of the intellect of women, 
we really can see no reason for the restrictions laid 
upon them in the choice of employments. They 
possess talents of all kinds. Government, to be sure, 
is a thing not fit for them, their fond prejudices 
coming often in the way of justice. Direction also 
they would want, not having the same power, I think, 
of imagination that men have, nor the same method, 
as I observed before. But how well women might 
work under direction. In how many ways where 



146 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

tact and order alone are required they might be em- 
ployed, and also, in how many higher ways, where 
talent is required. 

I suppose I shall have to say something about un- 
happy marriages as a cause of the evil I have named 
as the great sin of great cities. Of course there are 
a great many unhappy marriages. A weighty moral 
writer of the present day intimates that there is no 
medium in the felicity, or infelicity, of man'iage ; 
that it is either the summit of joy, or the depth of 
torment. I venture to differ from him in this re- 
spect. On the contrary, it seems to me probable 
that in marriage the whole diapason of joy and sor- 
row is sounded, from perfect congeniality, if there 
be such a thing (which I doubt), to the utmost ex- 
tent of irritable uncongeniality. 

How this may be I know not, but though unhap- 
piness in marriage may form some justification of, 
or at least some explanation for, other connections 
more or less permanent, yet I contend no want of 
domestic love or peace can justify the particular sin 
which is the subject of our present theme. 

At the same time I am far from pronouncing that 
the law of divorce may not require considerable 
modification ; but really there are so many large 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 



147 



questions to deal with in reference to this present 
subject, that I feel I cannot presume to enter upon 
this one of divorce, to discuss which properly would 
require any one man's life. I cannot, however, omit 
all allusion to it, as it has undoubted reference to the 
subject in hand ; and I may i-emark that it is a great 
deal easier to pass by Milton, or to sneer at him, for 
his great work on The Doctritie and Discipline of 
Divorce., than to answer the arguments therein con- 
tained. The truth is, that there is scarcely anywhere 
a mind sufficiently free from the overruling influence 
of authority on these and similar subjects to be 
able clearly and boldly to apprehend the question 
for itself. 

However, it does not become us to pronounce, if 
we are to judge from the results only, that our pres- 
ent notions of marriage are the best possible. I 
can imagine a native of some country where polyg- 
amy is practised, contending that the state of things 
in his own country in this respect is preferable to 
that in ours ; not, perhaps, as producing less misery, 
but at any rate less dishonor both to men and wo- 
men. We should find it difficult to gainsay him 
in this, as of course he would make much of the 
immense and obvious evils of the sin we have been 
considerinof. 



148 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

The greatest and most dangerous objection — I 
should rather say assertion — which will be made 
against any thing that has been said in this chap- 
ter and the two preceding ones, is one that will be 
uttered with a derisive smile by men of the world, 
as they are called ; that is, of a very small section 
of it. Thinking they are deeply cognizant of the 
human heart, because they ai^e very much afraid of 
its aberrations, and that they are fully aware of the 
powers of the imagination, from having little them- 
selves and discouraging the little they ever had — 
lapped, perhaps, in a kind of prosperity which sin- 
gularly blinds those who have the misfortune to en- 
joy an uninterrupted career of it — bounded by a 
small circle of equally well-conditioned, self-satisfied 
individuals — men of this kind pronounce not only 
upon the influx and efflux of tea, coflee, sugar and 
gold (in which, by the way, their dicta are generally 
wrong) , but they are also able specifically to declare 
about the ebb and flow of the passions or the aflTec- . 
tions ; about the tenderest and the most delicate of 
the relations in human life. Talk to any man of 
this worldly class about moral causes, or religious 
influences, he is equally at home with them, as if 
you were to ask him about the subjects most " im- 
mersed in matter." I can see the self-sufficient way 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 149 

in which if he had lived some seven hundred years 
ago, after the first crusade, he w^ould have pronounced 
with a wave of his hand after dinner, that there 
never could be such another adventure again, as the 
first had by no means been found to pay. But soon 
all Europe is listening to the clink of hammers upon 
harness, and thousands, hundreds of thousands, are 
repeating an adventure not good in a commercial 
sense, but still which gave a dignity to them such as 
the stayers at home never attained. 

Having damaged, as much as I can, the imagina- 
ry opponents — who, I know however, will prove 
real ones — before I bring their saying into pres- 
ence, I will now tell what that saying will assur- 
edly be. 

In answer to all that has been urged in the way 
of remedy for this evil, they will simply reply, 
" But these things always must be ; the laws of sup- 
ply and demand hold good in this case as in others : 
to think otherwise is the mere dream of writers and 
other ideologists : no wonder Napoleon disliked such 
people : we do too." 

To this, taking them on their own ground, I 
would reply that at any rate the force of circumstan- 
ces (a phrase they delight in) may be so adapted 
and modified as only to meet the exact necessities 



150 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

of the case. I mean, for instance, that those by na- 
ture most inchned to innocence should have the 
fairest opportunities of remaining innocent; that, in 
short, it should be the worst people that fell into the 
worst ways. This, of course, is only an ideal scheme 
too ; but there might be a practical tendency in that 
direction. 

In reality, however, it is the greatest mistake to 
suppose that such laws of supply and demand are 
not overruled by much higher influences. All things 
depend for their ultimate aim and end on the spirit 
in which they are undertaken ; which spirit cannot 
well be concealed. The measured generosity of 
mean people, whose gifts are all strictly related to 
duty, does not deceive others ; the bystander knows 
that these people are not generous, though he can- 
not exactly confute them from their words or their 
deeds. Again, people may pretend to be religious ; 
but if the real spirit is not in them, its absence is 
soon felt. I am merely giving these as instances of 
the deficiency of the right spirit being felt, or per- 
ceived, even when the outward deeds or words are 
there. But the spirit which results from convic- 
tion, and which gradually modifies public opinion, 
is one of the most powerful things known : who 
shall put limits to it.!* It will meet and occasionally 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 151 

master all the passions. Take the question of 
duelling, for instance; if you could have told a 
man of former times, when duelling was rife, 
that it would soon be almost done away with, 
" What ! " he would have exclaimed, " will there 
be no lovers, no jealous husbands, no walls to take 
the inner side of, no rudeness, no drunkenness, no 
calumny, no slander? And, if there are, how will 
the quarrels that must arise from these things be ad- 
justed ? Do not talk such Utopian nonsense to me, 
but come and let us practise in the shooting-gal- 
lery." And, yet, see how stealthily, how unassum- 
ingly, how completely public opinion, the result of 
a wise and good spirit gradually infused into men, 
has disarmed duellism ; as quietly, in fact, as the 
king's guard in former days would have taken away 
the weapons of any two presumptuous gentlemen 
who brought their quarrelling too near his Majesty's 
vicinity in his parks. 

One of the kind of reproaches that will ever be 
made, with much or little justice (generally with lit- 
tle justice), against any men who endeavor to reform 
or improve any thing, is that they are not ready with 
definite propositions ; that they are like the Chorus 
in a Greek play, making general remarks about 



152 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

nature and human affairs, without suggesting any 
clear and decided course to be taken. Sometimes 
this reproach is just ; but very often, on the other 
hand, it is utterly unreasonable. Frequently the 
course to be taken in each individual instance is 
one that it w^ould be almost impossible to decide, 
still more to lay down with minuteness, without 
a knowledge of the facts in the particular instance : 
whereas what is wanted is not to suggest a course of 
action, but a habit of thought which will modify not 
one or two actions only, but all actions that come 
within the scope of that thought. 

Again, there are people who are not so unreason- 
able as to expect suggestions that will exactly meet 
their own individual cases, but still they wish for 
general rules or general propositions to be laid down. 
There must be instant legislation to please them ; 
something visibly done. And often it is needful that 
something should be done, which however falls, 
perhaps, under the functions of other men than the 
original social reformers. There is always such a 
belief in what is mechanical, that men of ordinary 
minds cannot assure themselves that any thing is 
done, unless something palpable is before them ; 
unless they can refer to a legislative act, or unless 
thei'e is a building, an institution, a newspaper, or 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 153 

some visible thing, which ilkistrates the principle. 
But in reality the first thing is to get people to be of 
the same mind as regards social evils. When once 
they are of this mind, the evils will soon disappear. 
A wise conviction is like light ; it gradually dawns 
upon a few minds, but a slight mist rises also with 
this rise of light ; as the day goes on and the light 
rises higher, spreads further, and is more intense, 
growth of all kinds takes place silently and without 
great demonstration of any kind. This light per- 
meates, colors, and enlarges all it shines upon. 

Now, to apply some of these thoughts to our 
present subject. I do not believe that there will 
always be a certain set amount of wrong-doing in 
this or in any other case. On the other hand, I do 
not expect that peoj^le will suddenly rush into virtue. 
To take a very hinnble instance, the suppression of 
smoke, one of the most visible evils in the world, 
how long a time it takes to subdue that. Fi^om Count 
Rumford's time to the present day, how many persons 
have written, preached, talked, experimented, on the 
subject. And if this long process has to take place 
in so obvious a matter, how much more must it be 
so in the subtler regions of men's minds, in their 
habits of justice, or of forethought. But, insensibly, 
even in these dim and remote regions, good coun- 



154 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

sels, or evil counsels, will eventually prevail, — as 
quietly, perhaps, but as surely, as the submerged 
coral rock grows and increases from the accumula- 
tions of minute, gelatinous, molluscous creatures. 

The train of thought which I have described above, 
did not of course occur to me in the methodical way 
in which I have now put it down, but with frequent 
breaks and interruptions both from internal thoughts 
and the aspect of external objects. Now it was the 
noise of the mill, now the beauty of some homestead, 
now the neatness of some well-cultivated field, or the 
richness of some full farmyard that claimed my 
attention. But when I had finished thinking of the 
answer that must be given to that worldly objection 
" that there is a demand for wickedness, and that 
there must be a supply of it," I leaned back in the 
carriage and turned my mind to other branches of 
the subject. Just at that time, whether it was that a 
troop of little children came out of a school-house 
close to the road, or that I noticed the early budding 
in the hedgerows, as I passed along, I began to think 
of what had been alluded to in a former chapter ; 
namely, what a beautiful thing youth is, and how 
sad that it should be spoilt at its outset. And I went 
on to think not only of the negative, that is, of the 
loss of so much beautiful life and promise, but of 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 155 

the positive misery inflicted, which surely is well 
worth taking into consideration. 

Tragedy is very grand, with grand accessories, 

" Presenting Thebes', or Pelops' line, 
Or the Tale of Troy divine," 

when a purple-clad man, free from all the pettinesses 
of life, pours out a strain of sorrow which melts all 
hearts, and goes some way to dignify the sufferings 
of all humanity. But, after all, in some squalid den, 
as great if not a greater tragedy is often transacted, 
only without the scenery and decorations of the other, 
when some poor victim of seduction — now steeped 
in misery and sunk in the abysses of self-degrada- 
tion, amidst blasphemy, subject to reviling that she 
scarcely hears or easily endures from habit — lies 
on the bed of sickness thinking of her mother's gentle 
assiduities in some of the ailments of her childhood, 
and covers her face with her hands at the thought 
that that mother, dead, perhaps heart-broken, may 
now, a spirit, be looking down upon her. Well 
might Camoens wonder " That in so small a theatre 
as that of one poor bed, it should please Fortune to 
represent such great calamities. And I too," he 
says, " as if these calamities did not suffice, must 
needs put myself on their side ; for to attempt to 
resist such evils would be something shameless." 



156 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

I had meditated but a few minutes on this cry of 
anguish, which I seemed to hear as it came from the 
dying-bed of one of the most unfortunate of men of 
genius, and which I fancied, too, I heard from many 
other death-beds, when we turned out of the main 
road into the lanes which lead to Worth-Ashton. 
With all our pretences at governing or directing 
our thoughts, how they lie at the mercy of the 
merest accident ! Once in these lanes I quitted my 
subject, and began to think how the way to my house 
might be shortened, and I was already deep in the 
engineering difficulties of the proceeding, when 
somewhat satirically I said to myself. What a mania 
you have for improving every thing about you : 
could you not, my dear Leonard, spai-e a little of 
this reforming energy for yourself? One would 
think that you did not need it at all, to see the way 
you go on writing moral essays. Myself replied to 
me, This is a very spiteful remark of yours, and very 
like what Ellesmere would have said. Have I not 
always protested in the strongest manner against 
the assumption, that a writer of moral essays must 
be a moral man himself.^' Your friend Ellesmere, 
in reference to this very point, remarks that if all 
clergymen had been Christians, there would by this 
time have been no science of theology. But, jesting 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. i^J 

apart, it would be a sad thing indeed if one's ideal 
was never to go beyond one's own infirmities. How- 
ever, myself agrees with you, my dear I, so far, that 
it is much safer to be thought worse than better than 
one really is : and so blacken me as much as you 
like, and detract from me as much as you can, so 
that you do not injure my arguments or my per- 
suasions. These I believe in, and will endeavor to 
carry out, just as if they had been uttered by the 
most irreproachable and perfect man in the world. 

Maintaining this strange dialogue as stoutly as if 
there had been two persons instead of one in the 
carriage, I, or rather we, (I wonder whether the 
editorial " we " is thus really dual, consisting of a 
man and his conscience) — we, I say, reached the 
gate of Worth-Ashton, pretty good friends with each 
other, and pleased with what we had thought over 
during: our ride homewards. 



CHAPTER IX. 

O^INCE giving an account of my last reverie, I 
have been abroad for a short time, w^hicli has 
a little interrupted my work, but I now resume it 
with less feeling of weariness. I seldom think 
much during a tour. Indeed I come out to avoid 
thinking. I do not come to see what can be said or 
thought about any place, but to see it. Neverthe- 
less, occasionally, I make a few notes consisting of 
some disjointed words, sufficient to recall to me, and 
to me only, what were the things which made an 
impression upon me. 

One scene of this last journey I find commemo- 
rated in this short way ; and, as it is connected with 
some thoughts which carry on the subjects we (my 
readers and I) have lately been considering, I will 
recall it. 

I shall not tell with any preciseness where I was : 
for if I did so, and did it well, my countrymen 
would flock to see the place. Not that I grudge 
them seeing any thing. I suppose it happens to 
many of us, when abroad, to feel a little ashamed 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 159 

now and then of these same countrymen ; but yet 
I often think with pleasure that even the most 
coarse and obtuse traveller brings back something 
besides self-conceit. One regrets that such oppor- 
tunities are not always bestowed on minds fully able 
to profit by them ; but still one hopes that the most 
uncultivated people cannot escape getting some little 
advantage from their travels ; and if they wei^e to 
stay at home, they would not the less remain uncul- 
tivated people. 

Such travellers, however, would not thank me at 
all for describing a place which might thus get into 
the guide-books, and then, alas ! form one more 
spot which they must stop to look at, while they 
would far rather scamper over more ground and see 
more well-known places with great names. And 
as for the people who see things for themselves, 
they will not pass by the spot in question without 
giving it a due regard. 

And what a scene it is ! Across a wide extent of 
water lies a bridge of immense length formed of 
uneven planks supported upon piles. There is no 
railing to the bridge, so that you seem almost upon 
the water, and you have the sensation of being at 
sea, with the grandeur and without the misery (as 
it is to me) of such a situation. Here and there is 



l6o COMPANIONS OF 2IY SOLITUDE. 

an oratory out-jutting from the line of planks, with 
a narrow edging of stone round it. 

It was evening when I came upon the bridge, but 
not so late as to prevent me fi'om seeing well the 
country about me, which at intervals went down 
into the water in narrow tongues of land, with 
buildings upon them. Immediately on the heights 
above me were an old tower and a monastery. 
Near the land some giant reeds rose up from the 
water, but did not sway to and fro the least, for 
there was not a breath of wind. The only noise 
was a plash of the water against a jetty, or the occa- 
sional jumping of a fish. On one of the strange- 
looking rocks there, which come abruptly out of the 
water as if asking you a question from the deep, 
reposed a meditative crane standing upon one 
leg. 

On one side of the bridge the hills rise up around 
you evenly, and the mountains are well balanced in 
form : on the other side, they descend abruptly and 
ascend again, leaving a most picturesque gorge. 
Two poplars were to be seen on the lowland near 
this gorge. 

As evening deepened, and no more peasants 
returning homeward from the other side saluted me 
with their Good-night, the houses on the surrounding 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. i6l 

hills showed like glow-worms, and all was still, save 
the plash of the water on the jetty. 

I find that new places do not always bring new 
thoughts : sometimes they only intensify those which 
one has thought before. My mind went back to 
wiiat is held by many persons to be a most prosaic 
subject, — namely, education. And I thought how 
education, to be of any assured worth, must continue 
throughout life. " Now, Sir, that your education 
is ended," exclaims the parent or the guardian to 
many a young man whose education, in the highest 
sense of the word, is now about to begin. This is 
the mistake that we make, too, about the poor. 
Reading and writing will not do alone. You might 
as well prepare for a liberal hospitality by a good 
apparatus for roasting and boiling, but never putting 
on any viands, so that the kitchen machinery went 
on grinding unceasingly, with no contentment to 
the appetites of the hungry. No : before we shall 
be able to make much of education, the highest 
amongst us must take larger views of it, and not 
suppose that it is a mere definite quantity of culti- 
vation, — defined according to the narrow limits of 
the fashions of the day. 

If we saw this clearly, we should not be so anx- 
ious to succeed at college, at the bar, in parliament, 



l62 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

in literature, or in any one art and science. We 
should perceive that there was a certain greatness 
of nature and acquirement to be aimed at, which 
we would not sacrifice to any one pursuit, worldly 
or artistic. 

I stayed no longer on the bridge, but, ascending 
from it, made my way to a church which stood on 
the height close to the old tower. I marked in the 
light of the moon the slight, graceful, fantastic 
crosses in iron-work, telling that a peaceful popula- 
tion slept beside me ; and I sat down upon a low, 
broad stone wall. Thence you might see the wide 
waters, and some houses whose shadows lay upon 
the meads which skirted the waters. 

"And that is what all their ambition has come 
to," I muttered to myself, turning to the crosses. 

"Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placens " 

(what an epithet !) 

"Uxor: neque harum quas colis, arborum, 
Te, prJEter invisas cupressus, 

Ulla brevem dominum sequetur." 

These inevitable common-place remarks mostly 
contain the profoundest and the sincerest thought. 
Yes, life may be but a poor business at the best ; 
nevertheless, said I to myself, I will try to do some- 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 163 

thing yet, if life is spared to me. And so, resuming 
the subject which I had been working at before I 
left home (namely, the great sin of great cities), I 
began to consider what I should conclude by saying, 
just as if I had been in my study at Worth-Ashton. 
My eye wandered over the dark hills, catching 
every now and then the glow-worm light which 
came from some house or cottage perched up there. 
I pictured to myself the daughter of one of these 
homes carried oft' to some great town, soon to be 
lost there in its squalid suburbs, like beautiful, 
spoilt fruit swept away with garbage into the com- 
mon kennel. The girl, perhaps, is much to blame 
herself; for we must admit that the fault is not always 
on one side, and we must not suffer any sickly senti- 
ment to darken truth and justice. Yes — she may be 
much to blame ; but, surely, the wiser creature, 
man, is more so. Seduction is such a poor transac- 
tion. There was a time, it was one of the basest 
times the world has ever seen, when seduction was 
thought a fine and clever thing ; but now who does 
not see that to delude a woman, a creature easily to 
be deluded, especially through its affections, is a 
slight, unworthy transaction, and but for its dire 
consequences,' would be ludicrous ; like cheating a 
child at cards ? But when you add to this that in 



164 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

many a case, desertion follows so rapidly upon se- 
duction as almost to appear as if they had been 
planned together, then the smallness of the transac- 
tion is absolutely lost in the consideration of its base- 
ness. 

However, say what we will, there will often be 
seductions ; and it would be a great point gained, 
if desertion should be looked upon with greater se- 
verity. This brings me at once to the subject of 
what are called illegitimate children. 

Now, duties are very often very difficult things to 
apprehend rightly. As every thing is ultimately re- 
ferred to duty, and as a great many things in this 
world are very dubious, it is manifest that duties are 
often very dubious likewise. There are not only 
clear, but dim and shadowy duties, if I may so 
express them, which are very perplexing, and occu- 
py much of a man's time and thought. Often we 
find that what we supposed to be a duty was any 
thing but a duty. The great persecutors for opinion 
have probably found that out now ; and, indeed, on 
earth, we often discover that what we supposed to 
be a duty and performed with earnest diligence, was 
a great delusion. Under these circumstances, it 
does seem to me that when we have before us an 
undoubted duty, one of those things which come 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 165 

under the axioms of morality, we can hardly lay too 
much stress on the performance of that. It is like 
what we ought to do in our charities, I think. 
Charity is so difficult and perplexed a thing, that 
when a man has got hold of a clearly good charity 
which he can carry out, he had better do that thor- 
oughly than dissipate his resources, mental and 
physical, in any efforts of a dubious tendency. 

Now, I suppose, there are few things clearer to 
the human mind, 

"To saint, to savage, and to sage," 

than that a father owes duties to his child. The 
dullest savages have seen that. Even Lacedaemon- 
ians, if they put off individual fatherhood, only did 
so by throwing it upon the community. How can 
a man, for a moment, imagine that any difference of 
rank (a mere earthly arrangement) between the 
mother of his child and himself can absolve him 
from patei'nal duties.'' I am lost in astonishment at 
the notion. And then imagine a man, performing 
all manner of minor duties, neglecting this first one 
the while. I always fancy that we may be sur- 
rounded by spiritual powers. Now, think what a 
horrible mockeiy it must seem to them, when they 
behold a man going to charity dinners, busying 



1 66 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

himself about flannel for the poor, jabbering about 
education at public meetings, immersed in different 
forms and ceremonies of religion, or raging against 
such things, because it is his duty, as he tells you ; 
and at the door holding a link, or perhaps at that 
moment bringing home the jDroduce of small thefts 
in a neighboring, narrow alley, is his own child, a 
pinched-up, haggard, outcast, cunning-looking little 
thing. Throw down, man, the flannel and the soap 
and the education and the Popery and Protestant- 
ism, and go up that narrow alley and tend your 
child : do not heap that palpably unjust burden on 
the back of a world which has enough at all times 
of its own to bear. If you cannot find your own 
child, adopt two others in its place, and let your 
care for them be a sort of sin-offering. These are 
indignant words, but not more so than is right, I 
do believe, and I will not suppress one of them. 

I am not ignorant of the difficulty of doing as I 
would have a man do in such a case. I do not 
write as a hermit or a clergyman, but as a man who 
thinks he knows something of the world. To own 
to immorality, to have that fair respectability spotted 
which we all value so much, and which is valuable, 
is no slight effort. A man who would beard a lion 
in his den, will shrink from doing what he ought to 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. iS'J 

do, lest in so doing his neighbors sliould say un- 
pleasant words about him behind his back. And 
yet there have been respectable men who have worn 
beards and strange hats which their neighbors did 
not wear ; a more daring thing, perhaps, than own- 
ing to any immorality and endeavoring to repair it. 

There are men who have secretly supported the 
burden of an illegitimate family : these at least are 
far better men than those who have joined the world 
in ignoring the existence of those they were bound 
to know of and to succor. Great kings, who can 
aflbrd to set aside conventionality, before whom 
" nice custom curtseys," have boldly taken charge 
of their illegitimate children, and the world has not 
thought the worse of them for that, whatever it may 
justly have thought of the rest of their proceedings. 

Some may reply, all this acknowledgment is 
encouragement. I say not. I say it holds before a 
person those duties, the general forgetfulness of 
which encourages to immorality. But, really, fine 
questions of general morality ought to be of second- 
rate importance to a man who is neglecting his first 
duties. 

Is it not so.^ I said, looking round upon the thin 
shadows cast by the crosses over the graves. Silent 
population (any one of whom, the meanest, could 



1 68 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

now tell us more, mayhap, than all the wise men 
and doctors of this earth), silent population, is it 
not so ? But none answered, unless a sigh of the 
breeze which now stole over the churchyard was 
the expression of one of those subtle chords of sym- 
pathy, rarely heard, still more rarely appi^eciated, 
which, perhaps, bring animate, and what we call 
inanimate, nature into secret, strange communion. 

I went down again upon the bridge, looked up at 
the solemn sky, for the moon was clouded now, and 
beneath me at the dim waters, being able to discern 
naught else : and still with some regard to what I 
had been thinking of in the churchyard, hoped that, 
in a future state at least, we might have some oppor- 
tunity of loving and making our peace with those 
whom we have wronged here, and of seeing that 
our wrong, overruled by infinite goodness, has not 
wrought all the injury which there was in it to do. 

So I walked on, having those dim apprehensions 
and vmdefined feelings which are yet, perhaps, the 
unfashioned substance of our sincerest and most 
exact afterthought, until darkness and the cold and 
the thought of to-morrow's journey drove me home- 
ward, — the home so emblematical for man in his 
pilgi'image, — the home of an inn. 



CHAPTER X. 

OO varied, extensive, and pei"vading are human 
^^""^ distresses, sorrows, shortcomings, miseries, 
and misadventures, that a chapter of aid or consola- 
tion never comes amiss, I think. There is a pitiless, 
pelting rain this morning ; heavily against my study 
windows drives the south-western gale ; and alto- 
gether it is a very fit day for working at such a chap- 
ter. The in-door comforts which enable one to 
resist with composure, nay even to welcome, this 
outward conflict and hubbub, are like the plans and 
resources provided by philosophy and religion, to 
meet the various calamities driven against the soul 
in its passage through this stormy world. The 
books which surround me have been found an equal 
resource in both respects, both against the weather 
from without and from within, against physical and 
mental storms : and, if it might be so, I would pass 
on to others the comfort which a seasonable word 
has often brought to me. 

If I were to look round these shelves, what a host 
of well-loved names would rise up, as those who 



£70 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

have said brave ox wise words to comfort and aid 
their brethren in adversity. It seems as if httle 
remained to be said ; but in truth there is always 
waste land in the human heart to be tilled. 

The first thing which occurs to me is, that in 
bearing misfortune and vexation, as in overcoming 
temptation, there is a certain confidence which had 
better be put aside. This confidence sometimes 
results from a faith in reason, or rather a faith in our 
being exactly amenable to reason. For instance, it 
is some time before a man ceases to have a full 
belief in his own powers of accomplishing by direct 
means the absolute rule in his mind. If he is con- 
vinced of a thing, he says to himself, of course he 
will act accordingl}^ It astonishes him to hear of 
men — great men — who could not overcome, or 
found the greatest difficulty in overcoming, some 
small habit. Indeed, according to his brave imagin- 
ings, he intends always to overcome terrors and 
temptations, not merely to avoid them. Such is a 
ver}' juvenile though a very natural mode of think- 
ing. It requires a good many fallings in the mire, 
before a man finds that his own mind, temperament, 
and faculties, are things which will give him as 
much or moi-e trouble to manage, than his affairs, 
or his family, or than the whole world besides. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 171 

But as a man learns certain rules of health, so that 
it is said that at forty he is either a fool or a physician, 
so again, in dealing with the affections of the mind, 
there comes a skill which is not to be despised : and 
a man finds that the evil he cannot master he can 
ignore, the care he cannot efface he can elude, the 
felicity he cannot accomplish he can weigh and 
understand, and so reduce it from the size it would 
occupy in his imagination to its proper and reason- 
able limits. At last even sensitive people learn to 
suffer less from sensitiveness ; not that it grows dull 
by age, but that they learn to manage it better. 

As a sound preparation for consolation of various 
kinds, I would begin, not by wilfully magnifying 
evils, but by showing their true proportions, which 
no doubt makes them seem larger than the imagi- 
nation of the young, mistaught by many unsound 
fictions, pictures them to be. But nothing can be 
better than the truth. In its hand are all earthly 
and all heavenly consolations. As an instance of 
what I mean, there is a common fancy that an 
untoward event generally comes and goes with con- 
siderable rapidity, — and there an end ; whereas it 
is very often a long-continued process. You do not 
fall sheer down a precipice, but go tumbling by 
degrees, drinking in the full measure of danger and 



172 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

horror, catching at bushes here and there, now- 
imagining for a moment that you have found secur- 
ity on some projecting ledge, and then finding the 
ground crumbHng under you ; and so you fall on- 
wards till you reach the lowest level. The above is 
rather a strong image, but it may convey what I in- 
tend. 

To illustrate it in practice — most men who have 
lived any time in the world, unless they have been 
the very minions of fortune (in which case, by the 
way, they are not much to be envied), have vexations 
of considerable standing — long lawsuits, disastrous 
adventures, an ill-conducted child, or some other 
terrible relative, a deplorable shame, often such a 
mingled tissue of fault and misfortune, that they 
cannot pity themselves sufficiently for blame at their 
folly ; and they return from thinking over the folly 
to grieving over the ill-luck (as they call it) which 
brought out the folly so remarkably on that particular 
occasion. 

Such a course of things requiring time for its 
development, can hardly fail to exercise in vexation 
all the moods and faculties of a man. A statesman 
does not perhaps work, intellectually speaking, 
harder than a lawyer in great practice ; but the 
cares of the latter are cares which begin and end 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 173 

with the day ; not long lines of policy which require 
time and protracted care on one subject to work out, 
and where failure often comes by slow degrees. 

Now, then, for the attempt at aid or consolation 
in such a case. Suppose the course of events I have 
spoken of to be one of failure and vexation — real- 
ized, or about to be so, to use an American phrase, 
and a very good one. A wise man (but that word 
" wise " is hardly a fit adjective to put before " man," 
it would be better to say, a man well-read in the 
heart) sees when he has suffered enough from these 
lengthened trains of evils, when he has exhausted 
the instruction from them ; and though from time 
to time he may revert to them, as new views or new 
circumstances occur, enabling him to look down 
from a fresh height, as it were, on these long, dreary, 
disastrous passages of his life, yet he resolves sub- 
stantially to have done with them ; and when he 
finds them invading his mind and memory, adroitly 
he contrives at once to occupy it with something 
else. 

With his wisdom of this world. Napoleon, no 
doubt, took care not to let his Russian campaign 
press ftitally upon his recollections. 

Another way for a man in such a case is to quote 
these disasters fearlessly to himself, and sometimes 



174 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

to others, as dear-bought bits of experience, now 
possessions ; bought, it is true, at a most extravagant 
price, but still a little property, far better than 
nothing. 

There is great humility in such plans as the above : 
the man who adopts them has found out, or at least 
he thoroughly suspects, his own weakness, and is 
willing to avail himself of any fair advantage to fight 
with the numerous enemies that surround him. 
Like a wise commander, he looks about for the 
slightest rising ground. 

The same adroitness and practical wisdom may 
be manifested, not only in thought but in action. A 
friend of mine who had to attend a series of inter- 
views, in which business was discussed of much 
vexation to him, and where he had to undergo, 
justly, much contumely, discovered that the occasions 
when he gave way to temper and behaved unwisely, 
were those in which he rode on a tiresome horse to 
the place of business. This is very natui'al : his 
nerves were a little ruffled in managing the unruly 
quadruped ; his powers a little impaired ; his com- 
posure slightly broken through to begin with : and, 
where things are nicely balanced, this slight dis- 
turbance of equanimity might turn the scale. After- 
wards he took care to go to the place of these 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 175 

interviews always in the easiest manner, and noted 
the good effect of this change. How trivial such an 
anecdote will seem, except to those who know the 
world well, and have seen how important small 
things may be when they happen to be brought into 
the same narrow compass of affairs with great ones. 

But now, to pass to other subjects of human dis- 
tress, and first among them, to all that is suffered 
from obloquy. 

In bearing obloquy it may be noted, by way of conso- 
lation, that the world is always correcting its opinions ; 
that — except amongst your particular friends and re- 
lations, who have, perhaps, taken up a most erroneous 
view of your character, and, in the pride of a little 
knowledge, will never let it go — the general body of 
opinion is very fluent, and, at last, every thing has a 
hearing. I have a private suspicion of my own, that 
some of those Roman emperors we read of have been 
maligned a little. Somebody else perhaps has the 
same notion ; if it is a just one it will yet be inves- 
tigated, and what there is true in it be sifted out. 

It is certainly a long time to wait, for ages, to 
have an unjust opinion of you corrected ; but if fame 
is worth any thing at all, then there is a consolation 
in thinking that eventually you have a chance of 
being fairly dealt with. 



176 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

By way of comfort in bearing calumny, it may be 
observed that calumny does not originate in the way 
ordinarily supposed ; that there is rarely any such 
thing as a system of active, well-regulated, well-aimed 
calumny, arising out of malice prepense ; but that far 
more often it has its soui'ce in honest ignorance, 
mean-mindedness, or absolute mistake. It is to be 
viewed, therefoi'e, in the light of a misfortune, rather 
than in that of a persecution. 

Any man of many transactions can hardly expect 
to go through life without being subject to one or two 
very severe calumnies. Amongst these many trans- 
actions, some few will be with very ill-conditioned 
people, with very ignorant people, or perhaps with 
monomaniacs (and much less account is taken of them 
than ought to be), and he cannot expect, therefore, 
but that some narrative of a calumnious kind will 
have its origin in one of these transactions. It may 
then be fanned by any accidental breeze of malice 
or ill-fortune, and become a very serious element of 
mischief to him. Such a thing is to be looked upon 
as pure misfortune coming in the ordinary course of 
events ; and the way of treating it is to deal with it 
as calmly and philosophically as with any other mis- 
fortune. As some one has said, the mud will rub off 
when it is dry, and not before. The drying will not 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 177 

always come in the calumniated man's time, unless 
in favorable seasons, which he cannot command. It 
is not wise, however, to be very impatient to justify 
one's self; and, altogether, too much stress should 
not be laid upon calumny by the calumniated, else 
their serious work will be for ever interrupted ; and 
they should remember that it is not so much their 
business to explain to others all they do, as to be 
sure that it w^ill bear explanation and satisfy them- 
selves. 

When I was in the habit of seeing something of 
official life, I used to wonder that a great department 
suffered itself to be calumniated, and made no sign ; 
but older and wiser heads than mine soon convinced 
me that their business did not admit of their con- 
futing every idle and erroneous statement that was 
made about them, and that they were mainly to 
answer to those persons who had authority to ques- 
tion them. The same judicious maxim applies also 
to private life. 

Not far removed from calumny, and often leading 
up to it, is injurious comment on people's conduct ; 
which when addressed or repeated to them, or im- 
agined by them, is apt to vex them sorely. But 
really if it were considered how utterly incompetent 



178 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

men are to talk of the conduct of others, as they do, 
the talkers would often be silenced at once, and the 
sufferers as readily consoled. In the first place how 
impei"fect is our knowledge of our neighbor's circum- 
stances. You suppose a man rich, and he is poor ; 
or rich, but with perils, claims, and responsibilities 
of which you know nothing ; you suppose, him 
healthy, and he is tortured by some internal disease ; 
you suppose him unhappy in his domestic relations, 
and he is most felicitous ; or, on the other hand, you 
suppose him lapped in the loving I'egards of his 
family, and all the while he has a wretched, con- 
tentious home ; you suppose him a man of leisure, 
and he is cumbered with cares, duties, labors, and 
endeavors, of which you have not the slightest con- 
ception — what is your comment on this man's con- 
duct worth ? Then if we observe the difference of 
men's natures, and consider the want of imagination 
in most men which confines them to the just appre- 
ciation of those natures only which are like their 
own, how much this com23licates the question. Prob- 
ably the difference of temperament amongst men is 
as great as that amongst the different species of ani- 
mals — as between that, for instance, of the lively 
squirrel and the solemn crane. Now, if only from 
this difference between them, the squirrel would be 



COMPANIONS OF 3fY SOLITUDE. 179 

a bad judge of the felicity, or generosity, or the do- 
mestic conduct, of the crane. 

Probably when we are thinking or talking of a 
person, we recall some visual image of that person. 
I have thought what an instructive thing it would 
be, if under some magic influence, like that, for ex- 
ample, which would construct a " palace of truth," 
it were arranged that as we gave out our comments 
on the character or conduct of any person, this image 
on the retina of memory should change according to 
the truth, or rather the want of it, in our remarks. 
Gradually, feature after feature would steal away till 
we gazed at nonentity ; or we should find another 
image glide into the field of view, somebody we had 
never seen perhaps, but to whom the comments we 
were uttering really did apply. 

Now, the sufferers from injurious and unjust com- 
ment might treat the whole thing as one which lacked 
reality. The blame itself is often good enough, well- 
com^^acted, forcible, having an appearance of justice 
— but withal no foundation in real circumstances, so 
that it is only good, if you may say so, in a literary 
sense, as good fiction, but having no ground-work in 
real life. How little ought a thoughtful man to be 
long vexed at such stuff", immaterial in every sense. 

Besides, none of the great teachers have taught us, 



l8o COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

that to be reviled is any signal misfortune ; and there 
has been one, the greatest, who has pronounced it to 
be fraught witli blessing. 

In bearing neglect, the next evil to calumny, and a 
sort of disengaged shadow of it, many aids may be 
given to those who will be content to take them. 
No doubt neglect is hai^d to bear for one who feels 
that he ought not to be neglected. But where this is 
justly felt, the neglect may generally be traced up to 
some source which is not, necessarily, a painful one. 
A man will not condescend to use certain means, and 
yet would have what those means alone, or best, can 
give him ; or he insists, in his mental cogitations, 
vipon possessing that which could hardly be got ex- 
cept with the aid of certain advantages joined to 
merit, which advantages, whether wisely or not, 
Nature or Fortune has denied him. Having one 
stout friend (as Bacon, before quoted, has noticed), 
what will it not do for a man } There are certain 
things he cannot say for himself. If he says them, 
they turn into shame, vain-glory, and mischief, in- 
stead of aid and honor to him. Well, he has no friend 
to back him at the right time, how can he get those 
advantages which such a friend could gracefully ob- 
tain for him? Frequently, perhaps most frequently, 
the friend in question comes forward in tlie shape of 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. igi 

a relation who has a dh^ect interest in the fortunes of 
the man he puts forward. This is called having good 
connections. Any neglected man of merit ought not 
to suffer himself to be quite disheartened because he 
was not born with such relations. Neither were the 
poor men who dig in the fields. 

But neglect is only one phase of what man hates 
more, and suffers more from, than almost any thing 
else — namely, injustice. His sensitiveness in this 
respect is very remarkable. A little wrong out- 
weighs a great injury. Indeed, the things are not to 
be weighed in the same scales, are practically in- 
commensurable. The sea invades a man's estate, and 
retires carrying away land and crops, leaving sand 
where there was alluvial soil : it is a misfortune ; 
and he has a dull sense of sorrow and vexation if the 
loss is one of magnitude. But the poor blind ele- 
ments meant no harm, or if he thinks they were 
guided, he knows it was by One whose chastisements 
must be blessings. 

Again, suppose him to have spent much money in 
riotous living. Well, he thinks of this with shame, 
especially when some good comes in his way to do, 
and he sees what he might have done with the 
squandered resources. Still there was something for 
his money. He was not cheated ; he was mistaken. 



l82 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

But observe the same man on looking over a bill 
of costs : where often, for many items together, it is- 
only w^rong-doing requiring to be paid, and he feels 
that when he pays it, he is helping to support a 
vicious system of things. It is not well to be of his 
family circle on the day when he settles those ac- 
counts, unless he is one of those rare and generous 
creatures who do not mitigate their own misfortunes 
by unkindness to those with whom they live. No 
liberality of nature will suffice to soothe his mind. 
It is not a question of liberality. The same man 
who, with Luther, would say to his wife, " Why 
did we not give the silver cup to that poor man as 
we had no money .^" will haggle over an unjust or 
unsatisfactory payment from morning till night. 
But it is a question of wisdom and exj^erience : for 
a wise and well-informed man will see what must 
almost inevitably be the evil results of the particular 
form of laws he lives under (for codes are the doings 
of very imperfect creatures with a limited range of 
circumstances before them), and he does not expect 
to go into the most vexed and troublous part of 
human affairs, and come out with smooth coun- 
tenance and unruffled garments. Neither will such 
a man be disposed to imagine that he is worse off 
than others, or has worse people to deal with. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 1S3 

And the same thing is to be said of injustice 
generally. You often hear a man making the some- 
what simple complaint, that he only wants justice. 
Only justice ! why justice requires time, insight, and 
goodness : and you demand this in each case of the 
many hundreds that occur to you in the course of a 
year in which your fellow-beings have some dealings 
with you. No — justice ! look not for it till you are 
in a state of being for which you will hardly say 
that you are yet quite fit. In truth, the considera- 
tion of what a world of misunderstanding, haste, 
blindness, passion, indolence, and private interest 
we are in the thick of (perhaps the beauty of it as a 
world of trial) would go some little way to cure a 
man from vexing the depths of his soul, because he 
suffers from extortion, misrepresentation, neglect, or 
injustice of any kind. He is on earth : and men 
are unjust to him. How ludicrous the complaint ! 

Perhaps the wrongs we endure from unjust treat- 
ment would be easier to bear, if our notions of jus- 
tice were modified a little. For my part, instead of 
picturing her, sword in hand, apparently engaged in 
blindly weighing out small groceries — a figure that 
would better denote the goddess Fortune as it seems 
to me — I imagine Justice travelling swiftly round 



184 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

about the earth, diffusing a mild effluence of light 
like that of a polar night, but followed not by her 
own attendants, but by the ungainly shadows of all 
evil things, envy and prejudice, indolence and self- 
ishness, her enemies ; and these shadows lay them- 
selves down before her in their malice, and love to 
intercept her light. The asjDcct of a good man 
scares them partially away, and then her light lies 
in gi-eat broad spaces on the mead : with most of 
us, it is chequered like the sunshine under trees ; and 
there are poor creatures in whose presence all the 
evil shadows descend, leaving but a streak of light 
here and a spot there, where the hideous shadows 
do not quite fit in together. Happily, however, all 
these shadows are mortal, and as they die away, dark 
miserable places come into light and life again, and 
truth returns to them as her abodes for ever. 

Descending from these flights about justice to the 
more prosaic parts of the subject, I may notice, that 
mean misfortunes are often the most difficult to bear. 
There is no instrument of philosophy small enough 
to take them up and deal with them. A long career 
of small anxieties is also very hard to bear. 

One thing which often maintains these vexations 
in full force, is the shame of owning to our want of 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 1S5 

wisdom in the first instance. A man, playing in 
imagination his part in life, always, like the story- 
books, makes his hero successful in the end ; and, 
therefore, in real life, he is immensely disturbed and 
humiliated at finding that such is the devilry of cir- 
cumstances, that if he only gives a little inlet to 
mischance by folly or incautiousness of any kind, he 
is sometimes invaded by a flood of evil. 

He bears this in secret, struggling with all his might 
and eating his own heart, as it were, rather than own 
to the folly he committed at first. Nothing less will 
satisfy him than to retrieve the whole misfortune, and 
cancel by success his first error. Thus we come to 
one more instance of the truth that Pride applies the 
scourge more frequently and with far heavier hand 
than Penitence ; with the hand, in fact, of another. 

As regards the " career of small anxieties," which I 
spoke of above, one great art of managing with them, 
is to cease thinking about them just at that point 
where thought becomes morbid. It will not do to say 
that such anxieties may not demand some thought, 
and, occasionally, much thought. But there comes 
a time when thought is wasted upon these anxieties ; 
when you find yourself in your thoughts going over 
the same ground again and again to no purpose, 
deepening annoyance instead of enlarging insight 



l86 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

and providing remedy. Then the thing would be 
to be able to speak to these fretting little cares, 
like Lord Burleigh to his gown of state, when 
he took it oft' for the night, " Lie there, Lord Treas- 
urer." 

, It must be remembered though that his cares, 
assured as he was of his mistress's favor, were for 
the most part mere business cares, and did not 
exactly correspond with the small anxieties which I 
was speaking of. These are very hard, I suspect, 
to dismiss. Perhaps the best way of getting rid of 
them is not to attempt too much at once, but at 
least to change the cares, so as not to let one set 
prey upon the mind and make it become morbid — 
just as Newton, unable to go abruptly from his 
high, absorbing thoughts to what most men would 
consider recreation, merely adopted a change of 
study, and found his relief therein. 

There is often a very keen annoyance suffered by 
sensitive and high-minded people, arising from dis- 
satisfaction with their own work. I should be very 
sorry to say any thing that would seem like encour- 
agement to slight or unconscientious working, but 
to the anxious, truth-seeking, high-minded, fastidi- 
ous man, I would sometimes venture to say, " My 
good friend, if we could work out our ideal, we 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 187 

should be angels. There is eternity to do it in. 
But now come down from your pedestal, and do not 
overfret yourself, because your hand, or your mind, 
or your soul, will not fulfil all that you would have 
it. There have been men before you, and probably 
will come others after you, whose deeds, however 
much approved of by the general voice, seemed, or 
will seem, to the men themselves little better than a 
caricature of their aspirations." 

How much, by the way, accomplishments of 
various kinds would come in to help men to get rid 
of over-riding small cares and petty anxieties. 
These accomplishments mostly appeal to another 
world of thought and feeling than that in which the 
little troubles were bred. The studious, the busy, 
and the sorrowful might find in art a change of 
thought which nothing else, at least of worldly 
things, could give them. And the accomplishments 
I mean would be of use on occasions when there is 
no need, and where it is scarcely fitting, to summon 
forth the solemn aid of religion or philosophy. Not 
that I would have such aid far distant from any 
mind, or on any occasion : for there is a comfort 
and a sobriety of mind to be gained from the great 
topics of consolation which nothing else can surely 
give. 



1 88 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

In considering various forms of unhappiness, 
which has been tlie business of this chapter, for the 
purpose of providing some small aids and consola- 
tions, one form has occurred to me which is not 
uncommon, I imagine. 

It is where an almost infinite regret enters the 
mind at some happiness having been missed which 
in imagination seems the one, possible, jDresent good 
to the person indulging the imagination ; and the 
men or women in this sad case go on all their days 
mourning or fretting for want of that imagined 
felicity. This must often occur in the midst of great 
seeming prosperity, which deepens the vexation, 
and gives an air of especial mockery to it. 

To find consolation for this state of mind may not 
be easy ; still there are medicaments even for it. 
Imagine the happiness in question gained, fond 
dreamer; do you not already see some diminution 
of the happiness itself, — it will only be from lack 
of imagination if you do not, — but at any rate do 
you not at least perceive how many fears such 
happiness would throw you open to } " Ah, Da- 
vy," said Johnson to Garrick, after going over his 
new house and looking at the fine things there, 
" these are the things that make a death-bed ter- 
rible." 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 189 

Every felicity, indeed, as well as wife and chil- 
dren, is a hostage to Fortune. 

Lastly, there is to be said of all suffering that it is 
experience. I have forgotten in whose life it is to 
be found, but there is some man who went out of 
his way to provide himself with every form of 
human misery which he could get at. I do not, 
myself, see any occasion for any man's going out of 
the way to provide misfortune for himself. Like an 
eminent physician he might stay at home, and find 
almost every form of human misery knocking at his 
door. But still I understand what this chivalrous 
inquirer meant, who sought to taste all suffering for 
the sake of the experience it would give him. 

There is this admirable common-place, too, 
which, from long habit of being introduced in such 
discourses, wishes to come in before I conclude ; 
namely, that infelicities of various kinds belong to 
the state here below. Who are we that we should 
not take our share } See the slight amount of per- 
sonal happiness requisite to go on with. In noisome 
dungeons, subject to studied tortures, in abject and 
shifty poverty, after consummate shame, upon tre- 
mendous change of fortune, in the profoundest des- 
olation of mind and soul, in forced companionship 
with all that is unlovely and uncongenial, men. 



190 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

persevering nobly, live on and live thi'ough it all. 

The mind, like w^ater, as described in that beautiful 

passage in Metastasio which I w^ill transcribe below, 

passes through all states, till it shall be united to 

what it is ever seeking. The very loneliness of 

man here is the greatest proof, to my mind, of a God. 

" L'onda dal mar divisa 
Bagna la valle e'l monte; 
Va passeggiera 
In fiume, 
Va prigioniera 
In fonte, 

Mormora sempre e geme, 
Fin che non torna al mar; 
Al mar dov' ella nacque, 
Dove acquisto gli umori, 
Dove da' lunghi errori 
Spera di riposar." 

Such were my thoughts this wet day, which I 

had made up my mind was to be a dreary day 

throughout ; but I had hardly come to the end of 

what I had to say, when (may it be a good omen 

that the chapter itself may bring some cheer to 

some one in distress), the sun peeped out, the drops 

of rain upon the leaves glistened in the sunshine 

like afflictions beautified by heavenly thoughts, and 

all nature invited me out to enjoy the gladness of 

her aspect, more glad by contrast with her formei 

friendly gloom. 



CHAPTER XL 

'nr^HE sun came out brilliantly this morning. To 
be sure, there was a chilliness in the air ; but 
if you walked about with vigor, and said it was a 
charming morning, it gradually became so. An 
eccentric friend of mine, of the Johnsonian school, 
maintains that all kinds of weather may be treated 
in a similar manner, and says, that if a man will go 
out in the rain without any defence and pretend to 
know nothing about the showers, the rain will cease 
for him, each drop exclaiming, " It is no use rain- 
ing upon that man, he does not mind it." Whether 
my friend has a moral meaning to this fable of his, 
I do not know ; and, indeed, it is difficult to sound 
the depths of some men's humor, the deepest part 
of their nature. 

As I walked up and down under the shelter of a 
wall, so that I might have the full benefit of the sun's 
rays, I could not help thinking that the sun had 
been very little worshipped by idolaters. In fact, 
he is too manifest a benefactor to be much idolized. 



192 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Moreover, what the natural man likes to worship, 
is some ugly little idol, an incarnation of one or 
other of his own bad passions. I suppose the real 
explanation is, that the form of the sun being a sim- 
ple one, essentially belonging to the inanimate world, 
provoked no desire to worship, and left no room for 
sufficient mystery. So, after all, it is perhaps a 
proof of the craving imagination of mankind that 
the sun has had, comparatively speaking, but few 
worshippers, while an ungainly stone, or a thing 
with many hands and legs, has enjoyed the tenderest 
adoration. 

Then I thought if our senses were finer, what an 
exquisite sight it would be, to behold all the inani- 
mate woi^ld turning gently to the sun each day ; a 
fact which we only perceive in the results of such 
fond looks for many years, as exhibited in the growth 
of trees : whereas, if our senses were more delicately 
apprehensive, we might see every leaf, bud, and twig 
making its little way towards the light, and all na- 
ture, like one sunflower, bending slightly forwards 
in a supplicating attitude to the sun. 

Warming with the subject I exclaimed, this is quite 
an Italian sky — rather home-made, was the disparag- 
ing second thought. In such a mood it was very nat- 
ural to think of foreign travel. I looked at the fig-trees 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 193 

against the wall, and felt that they must be rather 
disgusted at the climate which needed such a posi- 
tion for them. However, said I, it is only what the 
greatest men have had to endure, to live in an un- 
congenial clime and to bring forth fruit with painful 
culture and under most adverse circumstances ; so 
you must not complain, though you are nailed up 
against the wall. On went my mind to a particular 
fig-tree near Cordova, from thence down the Guadal- 
quiver ; when I saw again the beautiful birds come 
out of the sandy banks of the river ; and, in truth, 
I was in a full career of travel, when it occurred to 
me that I had often thought many things about trav- 
elling, and that it might be useful to put them to- 
gether. So, walking up and down, like a peripatetic 
philosopher, only with no disciples (which, by the 
way, is a safer thing for the discovery of truth), I 
put into some order the following remarks on travel. 

A journey has often been compared to a life. I 
suppose that in any comparison so frequently used 
there must be some aptitude ; but it does not strike 
me. Any one day is like a life, is indeed an epitome 
of it : morning, noon, evening, awaking and going to 
sleep, have all the closest analogy with the progress 
of a life. But a journey is often very dissimilar to a 
13 



194 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

life. In travelling, for instance, for pleasure, you go 
out with much hope of deliglit : the delight is partly 
realized ; but there is much that is untoward, and 
which, at the time, prevents a thorough enjoyment 
and appreciation of what you do see. You return 
with joy, and the journey is afterwards stored up in 
the memory as a complete pleasure ; all the mishaps 
being put into, what the Dutch call " the forget 
book," or only remembered as interesting incidents. 
Clearly, one of the main delights is in the recollec- 
tion. Now, we cannot venture to say whether that 
will be the case with the journey of life. There 
does not appear much promise of that. 

I took a turn up and down the garden, and 
thought over that last suggestion, which is a very 
serious one. Soon, however, I returned to the sub- 
ject of travelling. 

Yes, I said to myself, certainly there is great 
pleasure in coming back after a tour (which, by the 
way, may be another great difference between these 
journeys and the journey of life), at least I know I 
am always glad to come back to that great, silent, 
unexpectorating people to whom I belong ; upon 
whose dominions the sun never sets, who are very 
powerful and somewhat dull, free as far as consti- 
tutions and forms of government go, but as slavish 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 195 

as any other nation to the great tyrants, custom and 
public opinion : a people, indeed, who do not enjoy 
any exuberant felicity, but who have humor enough 
to see their faults and shortcomings, which is some 
alleviation. 

But to descend more to particulars about travel- 
ling. The first thing is in the preparation for it ; 
the mental preparation, I mean. In this preparation 
lies some of the greatest utility and of the greatest 
pleasure connected with travelling. And without 
this preparation what a small thing travel would be. 
What is it to see some tomb, when the name of the 
inmate is merely a pompous sound, — the name of 
an unknown king, duke, or emperor, — compared 
with what it is to see the tomb of one whose for- 
tunes you have studied, who is a favorite with you, 
who represents yourself or what you would be, 
whose very name makes your blood stir.'' The 
same thing, of course, applies in travel, to knowl- 
edge of the arts, sciences, and manufactures. 
Knowledge is the best excitement and the truest 
reward for travel — at once the means and the end. 
A dignified and intelligent curiosity, how much it 
differs from mere inane lion-hunting ; where the 
ignorant traveller gapes at wonders which the guides 
know far more about than he does. 



196 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

With regard to the mode of travelling, it is curi- 
ous to compare the ancient with the modern ; the 
free yet stately way of the former, the methodized 
yet undignified way of the latter. Imagine a travel- 
ler in former days setting oft' from the ancestral 
mansion leisurely, on horseback. Within ten miles 
there might be an adventure ; and throughout the 
journey, which had not been much cleared up by 
the accounts of former travellers, there must have 
been a constant feeling of doubt as to what was to 
happen next, and a consequent excitement a little 
like the feeling of a great discoverer in unknown 
lands seeking after the kingdom of Prester John, 
the El Dorado, or the fountain of perpetual youth ; 
and not being certain any day that he might not 
come upon one of these wonders. 

I think it is possible to combine, occasionally, the 
advantages of modern and ancient travelling, espe- 
cially for the vigorous and healthy. 

In the plans and modes of travelling, the question 
of companionship comes first. And, by the way, 
what a hint it might give many a young man of the 
difficulties to be conquered in domestic companion- 
ship, when he finds how hard it is to agree with his 
fellows in travel for a few short weeks. All the 
difficulties attendant upon companionship occur in 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 197 

this case of travelling. Indeed, tlie first question 
is, whetlier you should journey alone, solitary and 
unmolested ; or with one other, when the want of 
profound sympathy and the wish to quarrel will be 
very painful ; or with two or three, when the quai"- 
relling can better break out and the companions 
separate into factions. The advantages and disad- 
vantages are so nearly equivalent that the traveller 
will probably condemn and regret whichever course 
he takes, and, therefore, may take any one without 
much concern. To the very serious reader I may 
mention that the above description is not given 
quite in easiest, but it points to what are some of 
the prominent dangers of companionship. Really 
it is disgraceful that men are so ill-taught and vmpre- 
pared for social life as they are, often turning their 
best energies, their acquisitions, and their special 
advantages into means of annoyance to those with 
whom they live. Some day it will be found out 
that to bring up a man with a genial nature, a good 
temper, and a happy form of mind, is a greater 
effort than to perfect him in much knowledge and 
many accomplishments. Then we might have that 
tolerance of other people's pursuits, that absence of 
disputatiousness, and that freedom from small fussi- 
uess, which would i^ender a companion a certain 



198 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

gain. It will not be desirable, however, to wait till 
that period before we begin our travels. 

The advantages of travel are very various and 
very numerous. I have already put the knowledge 
to be gained as one of them. But this is for the 
young and the unworn. A far greater advantage is 
in the repose of mind which travelling often gives, 
where nothing else could. It seems rather hard 
though, that all our boasted philosophy cannot do 
what a little change of place so easily effects. It is 
by no magical property, however, that travelling 
does this. It is merely that by this change things 
assume their right proportions. The nightmares 
of care and trouble cease to weigh as if they were 
the only things of weight in the world. 

I know one who finds somewhat of the same ad- 
vantage in looking at the stars. He says it suggests 
a welcome change of country. Indeed, he main- 
tains that the aspect of these glorious worlds might 
somewhat comfort a man even under remorse. 

Again a man's own land is a serious place to him, 
or at least has a possible seriousness about it, which 
is like a cloud that may at any moment come over 
the spot he is occupying. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 199 

There he has known the sweetness and the bit- 
terness of early loves, early friendships. There, 
mayhap, he has suffered one of those vast bereave- 
ments which was like a tearing away of a part of 
his own soul ; when he thought each noise in the 
house, hearing noises that he never heard before, 
must be something they were doing in the room — 
the room — where lay all that was mortal of some 
one inexpressibly dear to him ; when he awoke 
morning after morning to struggle with a grief which 
seemed as new, as appalling, and as large as on the 
first day ; which, indeed, being part of himself and 
thus partaking of his renovated powers, rose equipped 
with what rest, or alacrity, sleep had given him ; 
and sank, unconquered, only when he was too 
wearied in body and mind to attend to it, or to any 
thing. 

The places where he has felt such sorrows may 
be the dearest in the world to him, may be sure to 
win him back to them ; but they cannot always be 
regarded in that easy, disengaged way which is ne- 
cessary for perfect reci"eation. 

This, then, is one of the advantages of travel, 
that we come upon new ground, which we tread 
lightly, which is free from associations that claim 
too deep and constant an interest from us ; and, not 



200 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

resting long in any one place, but travelling on- 
wards, we maintain that desirable lightness of 
mind : we are spectators, having for the time no 
duties, no ties, no associations, no responsibilities ; 
nothing to do but to look on, and look fairly. 

Another of the great advantages of travel lies in 
what you learn from your companions : not merely 
from those you set out with, or so much from them, 
as from those whom you are thrown together with 
on the journey. I reckon this advantage to be so 
great, that I should be inclined to say, that you often 
get more from your companions in travel than from 
all you come to see. 

People imagine they are not known, and that they 
shall never meet again with the same company 
(which is very likely so) ; they are free for the time 
from the trammels of their business, profession, or 
calling ; the marks of the harness begin to wear 
out ; and altogether they talk more like men than 
slaves with their several functions hanging like col- 
lars round their necks. An ordinary man on travel 
will sometimes talk like a great imaginative man at 
home, for such are never utterly enslaved by their 
functions. 

Then the diversities of character you meet with 
instruct and delight you. The variety in language, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 20I 

dress, behavior, religious ceremonies, mode of life, 
amusement, arts, climate, government, lays hold of 
your attention and takes you out of the wheel-tracks 
of your every-day cares. He must, indeed, be either 
an angel of constancy and perseverance, or a won- 
derfully obtuse Caliban of a man, who, amidst all 
this change, can maintain his private griefs or vex- 
ations exactly in the same place they held in his 
heart while he was packing for his journey. 

The change of language is alone a great delight. 
You pass along, living only with gentlemen and 
scholars, for you rarely detect what is vulgar, or 
inept, in the talk around you. Children's talk in 
another language is not childish to you ; and, indeed, 
every thing is literature, from the announcement at 
a railway station to the advertisements in a news- 
paper. Read the Bible in another tongue ; and you 
will perhaps find a beauty in it you have not thor- 
oughly appreciated for years before. 

As regards the enjoyments of travel, I should be 
sorry to say any thing pedantic about them. They 
must vary so much according to the nature of the 
individual. In my view, they are to be found in the 
chance delights rather than in the official part of 
travelling I go tlirough a picture-gallery, enjoying 



202 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

with instructed and well-regulated satisfaction all 
the things I ought to enjoy. Down in the recesses 
of my mind, not communicated perhaps to any of 
my companions, is a secret hope that the room I see 
in the distance is really the last in the building, and 
that I shall have to go through no more. It is a 
warm day, and, stepping out upon a balcony for a 
moment, I see a young girl carefully helping her in- 
firm mother out of church, and playfully insisting on 
carrying the market burdens of both, far too heavy 
for her little self. I watch the pair to the corner of 
the street, and then turn back to see the pictures 
which must be seen. But the pictures will fade 
from my memory sooner than this little scene which 
I saw from the balcony. I have put that by for my 
private gallery. Doubtless, we need not leave our 
own country to see much that is most beautiful in 
nature and in conduct ; but we are often far too 
much engaged, and too unobservant, to see it. 

Then there is the new climate. How exquisite 
the mere sensation of warmth is to many persons ! 
Then there is the stroll in the market-place, or the 
sight of the harbor, or the procession, or the guard- 
house — in short, the aspect of all those ordinary, 
but, in a strange country, unfamiliar things which, 
happily, no hand-book need dilate upon, or even 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 203 

point out, but which men are perverse enough to 
like all the better for that. 

The benefits which arise from making the inhab- 
itants of different nations acquainted with one an- 
other may be considerable. How many things there 
are to be learnt on both sides ; and how slow men 
are in copying the good from each other. An evil 
custom or a dubious one, or a disease, mental, moral, 
or physical, how rapidly it spreads over the earth ! 
Evil is winged. How slowly any contrivance for 
cleanliness, or decorum, or good order, makes its 
way. If it were not that good by its nature is en- 
during, and evil by its nature transitory, there would 
be but little chance for the welfare of the world. 

In contemplating diflTerent nations, the traveller 
learns that their differences are very great, and yet 
how small when compared with their resemblances. 
That intensity of dislike which arises at these small 
differences, and which even the most philosophical 
minds are apt at times to feel, is *a great proof of the 
tyrannous nature of the human heart, which would \ 
have every other creature cut out exactly after its 
own pattern. 

One of the things to be most noted by an English- 
man in travelling, is the remarkable difference, as 



204 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

it seems to me, between our own and other nations 
in the amusements of the people. We are the peo- 
ple who have sent out our efforts to the uttermost 
parts of the earth, and yet a great deal of our own 
life at home is very barren and uncultivated. When 
I have been watching the gamesomeness of other 
peeple, it has often saddened me to think of the pov- 
erty of resources in my own countiy in that way. 
Shows alone will not do. Pictures are good in their 
way, but what is wanted is something in which peo- 
ple themselves are engaged. Indeed, more persons 
are amused, and rightly so, in playing at bowls than 
in looking at Raphaels, Murillos, or Titians. Those 
who are most amused, if one may use such a word, 
in contemplating these great works, are those in 
whom the works produce a secret feeling of power 
to create the like — I do not say, like pictures or even 
like works of art, but something great, if only great 
destruction — in fact, where the works elicit the sym- 
pathy of kindred genius. But for the amusements 
of the people, something on a very broad and gen- 
eral basis must be sought for. 

Returning, however, to the special subject of trav- 
elling, which I am now considering, it is worth no- 
tice that there is no occasion for being excessively 
emulous, or haste-bitten, in travelling any more than 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 



205 



in other occupations of life. Let no truly observant 
man feel the least envious, or disconcerted, when he 
hears others talk familiarly of cities which are dream- 
land to him, the names of which are poetry in his 
mind. Many of these men never have seen, and 
never can see any thing, as he can see it. The wise 
do not hurry without good reason. A judicious trav- 
eller tells me that he once went to see one of the 
greatest wonders of the world. He gazed and gazed, 
each minute saw more, and might have gone on see- 
ing into the thing for weeks, he said. Two regular 
tourists walked in, glanced about them, and almost 
before he could look round, they were gone. They 
will say, they saw what there was to be seen. Poor 
fellows ! Other men might have instructed them : 
now they will have their own misconceptions, arising 
from hasty impressions, to contend with. 

I must say, though, that any thing is better than 
insincerity in the way of admiration. If we do not 
care about what we see, let us not pretend to do so. 
We do not come out to tell lies, but rather to get 
away from falsehood of all kinds. 

There is also an observation to be made with re- 
spect to the enjoyment of the beauties of natural 
scenery, which applies not only to travelling, but is 



2o6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

of very general application ; namely, that we should 
enjoy and make much of that which comes in our 
way on every-day occasions. While it may be well 
worth the while of the lover of nature to be curious 
in looking after rocks, rivers, mountains, and water- 
falls, yet the obvious, every-day beauties of nature are 
not to be disregarded. Perhaps the short hasty gazes 
cast up any day in the midst of business in a dense 
city at the heavens, or at a bit of a tree seen amid 
buildings, — gazes which partake almost more of a 
sigh than a look, have in them more of intense ap- 
preciation of the beauties of nature than all that has 
been felt by an equal number of sight-seers, enjoy- 
ing large opportunity of seeing, and all their time 
to themselves. Like a prayer offered up in the 
midst of every-day life, these short, fond gazes at 
nature have something inconceivably soothing and 
beautiful in them. There is a remark by an exquisite 
observer and very subtle, often very profound, think- 
er, which indeed suggested the above thoughts, though 
we have each turned the thing a different way, he 
looking at a certain unreality in nature, and I con- 
sidering the combination of the upturned look to 
nature with the ordinary, earthly life of man. "But 
this beauty of nature," he says, " which is seen and 
felt as beauty, is the least part. The shows of the 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 207 

day, the dewy morning, the rainbow, mountains, 
orchards in blossom, stars, moonlight, shadows in 
still water, and the like, if too eagerly hunted, be- 
come shows merely, and mock us with their unreal- 
ity. Go out of the house to see the moon, and 'tis 
mere tinsel, it will not please as when its light shines 
upon your necessary journey." * 

There is this, too, to be said, that this habitual 
appreciation of nature on every-day occasions may 
prevent your missing the very highest beauties ; for 
what you go to see as a sight, may never be shown 
to you under most favorable circumstances ; where- 
as a much inferior scene may be combined with such 
accidental circumstances of beauty as in reality to be 
the finest thing you will ever have an opportunity of 
beholding. We must not be altogether captivated 
by great names : the sincere, cleai'-sighted man is 
not ; and has his reward for his independence of 
mind, in seeing many beauties in man and nature, 
which escape the perception of those who see by 
book alone. 

Before quitting the subject of travelling, I cannot 
help making a remark which has often occurred to 
me, but which, however, has regard, not so much to 

* Emerson. Nature — Chapter on Beauty of. 



2o8 COMPANIONS OF 31 Y SOLITUDE. 

the travellers, as to those they travel amongst. It 
concerns all those who preside over coach-offices, 
diligence-offices, post-offices, and custom-houses. 
What a fine opportunity such people have, it seems 
to me, to manifest a Christian temper. It is tire- 
some to you, O postmaster, to be asked all manner 
of questions, of w^hich you cannot see the drift, or 
which you think you have answered in your first re- 
ply ; but the poor inquirer is far from home ; he has 
but a dim understanding of your language, still dim- 
mer of your customs ; his little daughter is ill at 
home, pei^haps ; he wants to be assured by hearing 
again what you said, even if he thought he under- 
stood the meaning at first : and you should be good- 
natured and voluminous in your replies. Besides, 
you must bethink yourself, that what is so simple to 
you as your daily transactions, may nevertheless be 
somewhat complicated, and hard to understand, es- 
pecially to a foreign mind. You might, I think, 
carry in your mind an imaginary affiche, which you 
should see before you on the wall which fronts you 
as you address your applicants. 

ADVICE TO MEN IN SMALL AUTHORITY. 

" It is a great privilege to have an opportunity 
many times in a day, in the course of your business, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 



209 



to do a real kindness which is not to be paid for. 
Graciousness of demeanor is a large part of the duty 
of any official person who comes in contact with the 
world. Where a man's business is, there is the 
ground for his religion to manifest itself." 

And we travellers, on our parts, if only from an 
anxiety to give other nations a good opinion of ours, 
should beware of showing insolence, or imperti- 
nence, to those who give us welcome. The relation 
of host and guest should never be quite effaced from 
the mind of either party. 



14 



CHAPTER XII. 

T WANDERED about amongst the young trees 
this morning, looking at their different shades 
of green, and I thouglit if they, drinking from the 
same soil and the same air, and standing still in the 
same spot, showed such infinite varieties, what might 
be expected from men. Then I thought of the an- 
ecdote of Charles V. in retirement, endeavoring in 
vain to make his w^atches keep time together, and 
the inference he drew therefrom of the difficulty of 
making men think alike upon religious inatters. Ah, 
when it once comes to thinking, good-by to any thing 
like strict agreement amongst men. 

But alwa3'S amongst my thoughts to-day came that 
of the death of Sir Robert Peel, which I heard of 
last night.* Sad ! sad ! such a sorry death for so 
great a man — and, as we men should say, so inop- 
portune. I had hoped, as I have no doubt many 
others who take an interest in public affairs had done, 
that he would have remained as a great power aloof 
from party, a weight of private opinion, if we may 
* July, 1S50. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 211 

say so, which should come in at the most important 
times, to declare what is thought by the impartial 
bystander ; who, I should say (varying the common 
proverb), does not see most of the game, but sees 
things which the players do not see. Then I thought 
of his ways, which had often amused me, and which 
I had learned to like ; of his exquisite adroitness ; of 
the dignity of the man ; of the humanity, and of what 
always struck me so forcibly — of his amenability to 
good reasoning from whatever quarter it came. 

Then I thought of what I am often meditating 
upon — how the government of this country might 
be improved. 

There is no doubt that our constitution is a great 
thing, the result of long struggle and labor of all 
kinds ; but still how much its working might be 
amended ; and it is to that amendment that the at- 
tention of thoughtful men ought to be directed. Let 
us look at the matter frankly on all sides. 

It is a great advantage that affairs are long con- 
sidered in this country. 

It is a great advantage that scarcely any shade of 
opinion is without a hearing in the great assemblies 

of this country. 

It is a great advantage that a number of persons 
are exercised in public business ; and that our pros- 



212 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

perity and advancement do not depend on one man, 
or even a few men. 

It is a great advantage that grievances are sure to 
be discussed. 

On the other hand, let us honestly allow that it is 
a great evil, that the choice of men to fill the most 
important offices should be chiefly limited to parlia- 
mentary men. 

It is a great evil that honors and places should be 
confined to them and theirs : why should a man be 
made a peer because he has failed in an election, or 
a baronet because his vote is much wanted? Such 
things are too bad, and must be put a stop to. 

It is a great evil that no good measures can be 
carried swiftly, — so that remedies often come too 
late. 

What an improvement it would be if peerages for 
life were permitted. It would, in my opinion, sup- 
ply the House of Lords with just that element of 
popular influence which is wanted. 

And so, again, of official seats in the House of 
Commons : what a benefit it would be if just men 
could be put there occasionally, whom the world 
would be glad to listen to, but whom a constituency 
will not listen to, or who are not in a position to ask 
it to listen. 



COMPANIONS OF 31 Y SOLITUDE. 213 

We must have many improvements in govern- 
ment. Qiiestions are looming in the distance which 
will require the ablest minds in the country. If we 
ever become more sincere as individuals, we shall 
need to express that sincerity in political action. 

It seems to me there is vast room for improve- 
ment in many branches of government, — in finance, 
in colonization, in dealing with the poor, in the 
proceedings of the state as regards religion. For, 
whatever some of us may think or wish, religious 
questions of high import will not long be in the 
background. 

At present, the relations between people in power 
and the general intelligence of the country are not 
such as they might be. 

I know the difficulty of any sound reforms in 
government ; but if we never attempt any, they are 
sure at some time to be attempted by the clumsiest 
and coarsest mechanism. 

The loss of Sir Robert Peel is great indeed, *I 
again exclaimed to myself, as I thought what an 
official reformer he might have been ; not reckless 
to change or blame, inclined to give due considera- 
tion to official persons, — a class of men who amply 
deserve it, — and carrying out i^eforms, not in a 
spirit of condemnation, but of desire for increased 



214 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

effectiveness and force. What a loss in that man ! 
I will go and talk to Dunsford, I said, from whom 
one is always sure of sympathy and kindness. 

Without delay I began to turn my steps towards 
his parsonage, making my way along the lanes with 
lofty hedges, enjoying the scent of the sweet haw- 
thorn, and escaping, as far as might be, an east 
wind, which with a warm sun made a most unplea- 
sant combination of weather ; the east wind, like 
some small private vexation, rendering the rest of 
one's prosperity, not merely unpalatable, but ill- 
timed. 

As I went along, I thought of the Church of 
England, and of what might be its future fortunes. 
I have just been reading the works of two brothers ; 
last night I had finished an elaborate attack from 
the Roman Catholic side upon the Anglican Church 
by one brother ; and this morning I had read a very 
skilful attack upon all present religious systems by 
another brother. And I thought to myself, the 
Church of England suffers from both attacks. 

One's acquaintances who meet one in the sti'eets 
shrug their shoulders, and exclaim, " What a state 
the Church is in ! Oh that these questions that 
divide it had never been raised." I do not agi"ee 
with them, and sometimes I tell them so. If there 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 215 

are these great differences amongst thoughtful men 
about great subjects, why should they (the differ- 
ences) be stifled? Are we always to be walking 
about as masked figures? 

No doubt it is a sad thing that works of charity 
and mercy should be ever interrupted by indefinite 
disputes upon points which, when once taken up, 
are with extreme difficulty settled well, or laid aside. 
But then, on the other hand, how much good is pre- 
vented by the continuance of insincerity, by an 
insincere adherence on the part of men to that which 
they believe not. Besides, it is not as if all went 
on smoothly now : how much, for instance, the 
cause of education suffers from the existence of 
religious differences. 

Moreover, who can tell the general mischief pro- 
duced in all human affairs by degrading views of 
religion, which more thought might enlarge or dis- 
pel. Men's laws and customs are merely their 
religion applied to life. And, again, what a pity it 
would be if controversy were abandoned to the 
weak or the controversial only : so that, even for 
the sake of peace, it may be good for a man not to 
suppress his thoughts upon religious subjects, if he 
has any. 

For my own part, it has long appeared to me 



2l6 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

that our Church stands upon foundations which 
need more breadth and sohdity, both as regards the 
hold it ought to have on the reason, and on the 
affection of its members. 

As to the hold upon the reason : suppose we 
were taught to study scientifically, up to a certain 
point, something that admitted of all the lights of 
study ; and were then called upon to take the rest 
for granted, not being allowed to use to the utter- 
most the lights of history and criticism which have 
been admitted at first : how very inconclusive the 
so-called conclusions would appear to us. It would 
be like j^lacing a young forest tree in a hothouse 
and saying, " Grow so far, if you like, expand to 
the uttermost in this space allowed to you, but there 
is no more room after you have attained these lim- 
its ; thenceforward grow inwards, or downwards, 
or wither away." Our Church is too impersonal, 
if I may use that expression : it belongs too much 
to books, set creeds and articles, and not enough to 
living men ; it does not admit easily of those modi- 
fications which life requires, and which guard life 
by adapting it to what it has to bear. 

Again, as regards affection, how can any but 
those who are naturally devout and affectionate, 
which is not the largest class, have an affectionate 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 217 

regard for any thing which presents so cold and 
formal an appearance as the Church of England. 
The services are too long ; and, for the most part, 
are surrounded by the most prosaic circumstances. 
Too many sermons are preached ; and yet, after all, 
too little is made of preaching. The preachers are 
apt to confine themselves to certain topics, which, 
however really great and solemn, are exhaustible : 
at least as far as men can tell us aught about them. 
Order, decency, cleanliness, propriety, and very 
often good sense, are to be seen in full force in An- 
glican Churches once a week ; but there is a defi- 
ciency of heartiness. 

The perfection to be aimed at, as it seems to me, 
as I have said before, would be a Church with a 
very simple creed, a very grand ritual, and a useful 
and devoted priesthood. But these combinations 
are only in Utopias, Blessed Islands, and other fab- 
ulous places ; no vessel enters their ports, for they 
are as yet only in the minds of thoughtful men. 

In forming such an imaginary Church, there cer- 
tainly are some things that might be adopted from 
the Roman Catholics. The other day I was at 
Rouen ; I went to see the gran-d old Cathedral ; the 
great western doors were thrown wide open right 



2l8 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

upon the market-place filled with flowers, and, in 
the centre aisle, not before any image, a poor wo- 
man and her child were praying, I was only there 
a few minutes, and these two figures remain im- 
pressed upon my mind. It is surely very good that 
the poor should have some place free from the re- 
straints, the interruptions, the familiarity, and the 
squalidness of home, where they may think a great 
thought, utter a lonely sigh, a fervent prayer, an 
inward wail. And the rich need the same thing too. 

Protestantism, when it shuts up its churches, or 
allows discreditable twopences to be paid at the 
door, cannot be said to show well in these matters. 
In becoming so nice and neat, it seems to have 
brushed away a great deal of meaning and useful- 
ness with the dirt and irregularity. 

The great difficulty in reforming any Church lies, 
of course, in the ignorance of its members. More- 
over, there may be great indifference to any Church, 
or dissatisfaction with it, amongst its membei"s ; but 
then people say to themselves, if we touch this or 
that thing which we disapprove of, we do not know 
what harm we may not be doing to people of less 
insight or less caution than ourselves ; and so they 
go on, content with a very rude attempt indeed at 
communion in spiritual matters, provided they do 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 219 

not, as they would say, unsettle their neighbors. 
There is something good and humble in this ; there 
is something also of indifference : if our ancestors 
had always been content with silent protests against 
the things they disapproved of, we might have been 
in a worse position than we are now. 

To lay down any guidance for action in this mat- 
ter is very difficult indeed. According to the usual 
course of human affairs, some crisis will probably 
occur, which nobody foresees, and then men will be 
obliged to speak and act boldly. It behooves them 
to bethink themselves, from time to time, of whither 
they are tending in these all-important matters. 

The intellectual energies of cultivated men want 
directing to the great questions. If there is doubt 
in any matter, shall we not examine.'* Instead of 
that, men shut their thoughts up, and pretend to be 
orthodox — play at being orthodox. Meanwhile, 
what an evil it must be to the Church, if through 
unnecessary articles of faith, some of the best men 
are prevented from becoming clergymen, and many 
of the laity rendered less hearty members than they 
otherwise would be, of the Church. 

Dwelling upon such thoughts, which are full of 
pain and anxiety — the thoughts of one who is al- 
ways desirous to make the best of any thing that is 



220 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

before him, and who is well aware how hard it is to 
reform anything from without — I reached Duns- 
ford's quiet little parsonage. 

I found my old friend sitting in his garden in the 
very spot where I expected to find him, and for 
which I made my way without going through the 
house. In the middle of his kitchen-garden he has 
placed his beehives, and has surrounded them by a 
semicircle of juniper-trees about five feet high. In 
front of the beehives is a garden-seat upon which I 
found him sitting and reciting Latin poetry to him- 
self, which I had no difficulty in discerning, though 
I could not hear the words, to be from his favorite 
author, Virgil. Ellesmere, who views every thing 
in a droll sarcastic way, says that our friend has 
chosen this particular seat in his garden from its 
being likely to be the place least disturbed by his 
sister and his curate. Though very good people 
they are somewhat fussy, and given to needless 
gesticulation, which the bees dislike, and occasion- 
ally express their dislike in a very tangible manner. 
This spot, therefore, which is guarded by thousands 
of little soldiers, well-armed and well-equipped, 
distinguished fi'om their human prototypes by gain- 
ing supplies and not by wasting them, affords a very 
secure retreat for our friend, where he can talk 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 221 

Virgil to himself for half-an-hour on a sunny 
morning. 

It was not altogether without trepidation that I 
took my seat by his side amidst innumerable buzz- 
ings and whizzings ; but he assured me with a 
smile that the bees would not hurt me, and in a 
minute or two their presence was only like a mur- 
mur of the distant wind through the trees. 

I began at once to narrate to Dunsford the melan- 
choly circumstances of Sir Robert Peel's death, 
which he had not heard of before, and which 
affected him deeply. Naturally his emotion in- 
creased my own. After I had told him the sad 
story, and answered his various questions about it, 
we remained silent for a time. I looked at the bees, 
and thought of Manchester and other of the great 
hives and marts of industry : Dunsford went on 
with his Virgil : at last we thus resumed our dia- 
logue. 

Dunsford. I do not wonder, my dear Leonard, 
that you were much affected by Sir Robert's death. 
I always felt how much you ought to sympathize 
with him. Indeed there are two or three minor 
points in which you often put me a little in mind 
of him. 

'Milverton. It is strange I never heard you say so. 



222 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Dunsford. I did not think you much admired 
him, or would feel pleased at being likened to him 
in any thing. But this is what I mean, — it always 
appeared to me, that he had the most peculiar ap- 
preciation of the irrationality, and difficult to man- 
age, of mankind. This was one of the things 
which made him so cautious. He never threw out 
his views or opinions till the moment when they 
were to be expressed in action. He did not want 
to provoke needless opposition. In short it was 
clear that he had the keenest apprehension of the 
folly of the world : he was very obstinate withal, 
or, as I had better say, resolved ; and very sensitive. 
He did nothing under the hope that it would pass 
easily, and cost him nothing to do ; and yet, at the 
same time, though he foresaw distinctly opposition 
and unreason and calumny, he felt them more per- 
haps than quite beseemed so wise and resolute a 
man when they did come. You best know whether 
I am right in attributing some of the same strength 
and some of the same weakness to the man who 
sits beside me. 

Milverton. I neither admit nor deny : but sure- 
ly, Dunsford, it is not unwise nor impi'udent to 
expect to have every degree of irrationality to battle 
with in any thing one may undertake ; and time is 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 223 

seldom lost in preparing to meet that irrationality ; 
or strength, in keeping one's projects long before 
one. This is not merely worldly wisdom : sucii 
conduct results from a deep care for the success of 
the project itself. 

Dunsford. Much of it is the result of tempera- 
ment ; and temperament is a part of our nature 
sooner developed than almost any other. How soon 
you see it in children, and how decisively marked. 

Milverton. I cannot help thinking what a 
shrewd man you are, Dunsford, when you choose 
to be so. It is you who ought to conduct great law- 
cases, and write essays, instead of leaving such 
things to Ellesmere and myself, and pretending that 
you are the simple, unworldly, retired man, content 
to receive your impressions of men and things from 
your pupils. I suppose that watching these bees, 
gives you a great insight into the management of 
states and the conduct of individuals. You recite 
Virgil to them, and they buzz into your ears bee- 
wisdom of the most refined kind. 

Dunsford. Talking of essays, may I ask, Mr. 
Milverton, what you are about .^ You have not been 
near me for some time, and I always construe your 
absence into some new work. 

Milverton. You are right in this case ; but I 



224 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

mostly avoid talking about what I am doing, at 
least, till it is in some state of forwardness. Talking 
prevents doing. Silence is the great fellow- workman. 

Dunsford. The bees? 

Milverto7t. They buzz when they come home : 
they are silent enough at their work. Moreover, I 
am beginning to care less and less about criticism 
during the progress of work, fearing less, you see, 
Dunsfoi'd, the irrationality of the world ; for what 
you mainly aim to get at by listening to criticism is 
not so much what will be understood, as what will 
be misunderstood, — and that misunderstanding 
arises sometimes from your own error in thought, 
sometimes from bungling workmanship, sometimes 
from the irrationality of mankind ; or from some 
unfortunate combination of these various sources of 
error. My growing indifference to criticism, in fact 
the reason why my steps have not been bent so 
often lately in the direction of the Rectory, I would 
have you to believe, results, not from any increasing 
confidence in my own woi^kmanship, but from my 
growing faith in the general rationalitv and kindli- 
ness of mankind. 

Dunsford. Humph ! 

Alilvertojz. Besides, my endeavors and aspira- 
tions are so humble — 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 225 

Dunsford. Humph ! 

Milverton. You will agree with me when you 
see what I mean. They are so humble that they do 
not require all that adverse criticism and consequent 
moulding which moi'e elaborate schemes might do. 
For instance, I believe in the indefinite improva- 
bility of ourselves and of every thing around us. Do 
not be frightened, and look up so strangely, Dunsford : 
I do not mean perfectibility. Now, if by way of carry- 
ing out this belief of mine, I had any scheme of social 
regeneration, in which every thing and everybody was 
to be put in his or its right place, of course it would 
have been necessary for me to have come very often 
over to the Rectory, to drink in sound wisdom in the 
way of all kinds of comment, objection, and elabora- 
tion, from you and Lucy, and these wise bees. 

Dunsford. I declai"e, Milverton, when Ellesmere 
is not with us, you play both his part and your own : 
but go on. 

Milverton. No — but, seriously, my dear Duns- 
ford, to go on with my schemes of improvability, I 
assure you they are on a very humble basis. Look- 
ing around I see what slight things are often the real 
hindrances to the best endeavors of men. I would 
aim to take these hindrances out of a man's path. 
Mark you, I do not expect that he will therefore 
IS 



226 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

become a greater man, but he will certainly be able 
to act more like one. To descend to particulars, 
why I delight so much in sanatory reform is not 
so much in the thing itself, if I may say so, as in 
the additional power and freedom it gives to man- 
kind. I do not know what social arrangements 
will be good for the coming generation, what 
churches will be best for them, what forms of legis- 
lation ; but I am sure that in whatever they do, 
they will be entangled with fewer difficulties, and 
will act more healthfully and wisely, if they are 
healthy men themselves. 

Dunsford. Good doctrine, I think. 

Alilverton. In the same way I would seek to 
remove all manner of social disabilities ; always 
again with a view to the future, that the removal of 
these disabilities may give i^oom for more freedom 
of thought and action. 

Du7isfo7'd. I do not quite understand this, but 
do not wait to explain : go on. 

Milverton. It is for the same reasons that I de- 
light in education (and you know that I do not mean 
a small thing by education) because of its enabling 
powers, to use a legislative phrase. Here again I 
do not pretend to see what will become of people 
when educated, or to suggest the forms that such 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 227 

discipline will ultimately fit them for ; but I cannot 
but believe that it will make any people into mate- 
rial more malleable in the hands of the wise and 
good — of those who should be, and who, to a cer- 
tain extent are, the leaders of each generation. In- 
deed, I believe, that always as men become greater, 
they are more easy to deal with. • 

Dunsford. I begin to see what you would be at. 

Milverton. I conceive that as civilization ad- 
vances, a thousand little complexities arise with it. 
To untie them in any way may be a humble effort, 
but seems to me a most needful one. What we are 
ever wanting is to give freedom without license : to 
free a man from mean conformity — 

Dunsford. By making him conform to some- 
thing higher. I think, Milverton, I have assisted in 
pointing this out to you when I was afraid that you 
were making too much war upon conformity. 

Milverton. It is only one of many things, my 
dear friend, which I have learned from you. 

Dunsford. Thank you, my dear Leonard. I 
must say you have always been most willing to give 
more than due heed to any thing your old tutor has 
said, with the exception of the advice he used to 
tender to you at College about getting up certain 
problems in the Differential and Integral Calculus. 



228 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

Milverton. And I wish I had listened to that 
advice also. 

Dunsford. But are you not a little afraid, my 
friend (not that I would say one word against any 
good purpose you may have), that with all your 
imaginary cultivation and enabling men to act more 
freely and wisely by the removal of small disabilities, 
which yet I admit may be great hindrances : are you 
not afraid, that after all we shall advance into some- 
thing very tiresome, somewhat of a dead level, which 
observers even now say is very visible in the world — 
no great man, but a number of decent, ordinary, 
cultivated, common-place persons ? I believe I am 
now talking Ellesmere to you ; for, in reality, I pre- 
fer the advancement of the great mass of mankind 
to any pre-eminence of a few : but still I should like 
to hear what you have to say to this objection. 

Milvei'to7t. I am delighted that you have raised it. 
I suspect there is a great delusion in this matter. 
The notion that there is a dead level in modern times 
is a mistake : it is oiily that there are i7tore emi- 
nences. Formerly, one class or kind of men made a 
noise in the world, or at least made the chief noise ; 
and, looking across the hazy distances of time, we 
are deluded by great names. An Alexander, a Ti- 
mour the Tartar, an Attila, a Charlemagne, loom 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 229 

large in the distance. There were not so many ways 
to pre-eminence then — added to which, I should be 
very slow to connect greatness of thouglit, or great- 
ness of nature, with resounding deeds. 

Dunsford. Surely, at the latter end of the fif- 
teenth, and in the sixteenth century, there were un- 
rivalled great men — a galaxy of them. 

Milverton. Yes, I admit ; and no man looks up 
to some of the personages of that era with more 
reverence and regard than I do : and, moreover, 
I would not contend that there may not be an oc- 
casional galaxy, as you have termed it, of such 
men. But all I have to contend against is, that the 
tendency of modern cultivation is not necessary to 
bring men to a dead level, and to subdue all real 
greatness. 

Durtsford. But you must admit that there is a 
certain smallness in the men of our time, and a fool- 
ish hurry in their proceedings. 

Milverton. No : that is not exactly what we have 
reason to complain of, but rather a certain coldness, 
an undue care for respectability, and too much desire 
to be safe. One of our most observant men, who has 
seen a great deal of the world, and always desired to 
understand the generation under him as well as that 
which came before him, says, that the young men of 



230 COMPANIONS OF 31 Y SOLITUDE. 

the present day are better than the young men of his 
time ; but there is one thing that he complains of in 
them, and that is, their fear of ridicule. To a certain 
extent he is right, I think ; only I should modify his 
remark a little, and say, that it is not exactly that 
they fear ridicule, as they dislike to put themselves 
in such a position that they may justly be made ri- 
diculous. It is partly caution, partly fastidiousness, 
partly a fear of ridicule. 

Dunsford. Well, then, I think that each man is 
more isolated than he used to be. There is less of 
clanship, less of the rallying round men of force or 
genius. How very rai'e a thing it is for one man to 
devote himself to the purposes framed by another's 
mind, or to give evidence of something like devotion 
to his person. Yet this would often be the wisest 
and the noblest form of exertion. 

Milverton. But then there would be no original- 
ity, as they think, and there is now a diseased desire 
for originality, which is never to be got by the men 
who seek it. All the while the most original thing 
would be to be humble and subsei'vient to great pur- 
poses, from whomsoever adopted. 

At the same time, I must say that, as far as I have 
observed, the young would be very devoted to for- 
ward the purposes of their elders and superiors, 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 23 1 

whether in parliament, in offices, or in any other 
functions of civil life : and I think that in our times, 
great fault has often been on the side of the eldei's in 
not making just use of the young talent lying every- 
where about them. 

Dunsjord. That may be. 

Milverton. Indeed, Dunsford, it is not every one 
who, like yourself, is anxious to elicit the powers, 
and to carry forward the purposes, of younger men. 
It requires a great deal of kind-hearted imagination 
to do that. 

Dunsford. You make too much of this, Milver- 
ton. It is natural that I should care about my own 
pupils more than any thing else. I live in their 
doings. 

Milverton. And in your new edition, that is to 
be, of the Second part of Algebra, as Ellesmere 
would say, if he were here : but to return to our sub- 
ject, I will tell you, at least I will try and tell you, 
in a somewhat fanciful way, what I think of the 
whole matter. 

Have you ever known well a beautiful bit of nat- 
ural scenery, before man has come to settle in it — a 
cliff near the sea, a mead near a lake, or the outskirts 
of a noble forest .? If so, you recollect the delicately 
rounded, gracefully indented, or grotesquely out-jut- 



232 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

ting forms, which the rock, or the hill, or the 
margin of the waters, or the outskirts of the wood 
had taken — forms dear to the painter and the poet. 
(Here Lucy entered the enclosure where we were 
sitting.) 

Lucy. The painter and the poet — I am sure this 
is something which I may listen to, Mr. Milverton ; 
may I not? 

Milverton. There are few persons, Lucy, who 
have more feeling for the works of painters and 
poets ; and so you have a right to hear any thing 
that is to be said about them. (I then repeated to 
her the former part of the sentence.) You then, per- 
haps, after an interval of many years, pass by the 
same place. A number of square white houses, poor 
in form and questionable in design, deface the beau- 
tiful spot. The delicate impressions of nature are 
gone, and, in their stead, are the angular marks of 
men's handiwork. The painter hurries by the place ; 
the poet, too, unless he is a very philosophic one, 
passes shuddering by. But, in reality, what forms 
of beauty, in conduct, in suffering, in endeavor ; what 
tragedies, what romances ; what footprints, as it 
were, angelic and demoniac — now belong to that 
spot. It is true, we have lost wonderful lichens and 
those exquisitely colored mosses on the rocks which 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 233 

were the delight of the artist. Perhaps there are now 
ungainly initials in their place, illustrative, however, 
of a deeper poetry than ever was there before. But 
I grow too fanciful, and must descend to prosaic ex- 
planations. I mean, in short, that though there is 
more cultivation (which, it must be confessed, effaces 
somewhat of the natural rugged beauty of the scene), 
there is also more of a higher beauty which sits be- 
side the other (plain prosaic cultivation) always, 
though oft unkenned by mortal eyes. So, in the ad- 
vancement of mankind, the great barbaric outlines 
are broken into, and defaced ; but a thousand new 
beauties, new delicacies, even new greatnesses, take 
their place. Nature is ever affluent in such things ; 
and this effect of cultivation is to be seen, not only 
in mankind, but in individual men. For instance, 
Dunsford, the very shyness and coldness of modern 
youth arises in some measure from the growth of 
tact and delicacy. But I need not explain further ; 
you see what I mean. 

Dunsford. I think I do ; and as it is a charit- 
able view, I wish to think it a true one. But I could 
object to your metaphor, if I chose to do so. 

Lucy. And is it equally true, Mr. Milverton, 
with the young ladies as with the young gentlemen } 

Milverton. Why, my dear Lucy, the young la- 



234 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

dies are always of course more in harmony with 
nature. Though women are more slavish to small 
conventionalities than men, the real advance of civ- 
ilization tells much less upon women than upon 
men. One, who knew them well, says that " The 
ideas of justice, of virtue, of vice, of goodness, of 
wickedness, float only on the surface of their souls 
(consequently the prevailing ideas amongst men on 
these subjects make comparatively little impression 
upon women), in the depths of which (their souls) 
they have ' I'amour propre et I'interet personnel ' (I 
quote his very words) with all the energy of na- 
tui^e ; and, more civilized than ourselves from with- 
out, they have remained true savages within : (plus 
civilisees que nous en dehors, elles sont restees de 
vraies sauvages en dedans)." 

Lucy. The man is a savage himself: he must be 
a French Mr. Ellesmere. 

Milverton. They are daring words, certainly ; 
but perhaps they have a scintilla of truth in them. 
However, I will come again some day, and endea- 
vor to elucidate these things a little further. Now 
I see the bees are flocking homewards with well- 
laden thighs, and I, too, must go back to my hive, 
well laden with the wisdom to be gained from the 
thoughtful trees and beautiful flowers of the Rectory. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 235 

Dtinsford. 

"Et fessse multa referunt se nocte minores, 
Crura thymo plense : pascuntur et arbuta passim, 
Et glaucas salices, casiamque crocumque rubentem, 
Et pinguem tiliam, et ferrugineos hyacinthos. 
Omnibus una quies operum, labor omnibus unus." 

Milverton. Now, Miss Lucy, you must trans- 
late. I know you do that with all your uncle's fa- 
vorite bits : and to tell the truth, I have forgotten 
some of the words. What is tilia.? 

Lucy. You must not be very critical then, if I 
do translate, and ask for every word to be rendered. 

Now homewards come, borne on the evening breeze, 

With heavy-laden thighs, the younger bees : 

Each in the arbutus has hid his head. 

In yellow willow-bloom, in crocus red. 

And the rich foliage which the lindens spread: 

One common labor each companion knows, 

And for the weary swarm is one repose. 

Milverton. A little liberal, Lucy, but it gives 
some of the sense of the passage, I think ; and you 
are "a good girl for not making more fuss about let- 
ting me hear it. I really must go now ; so good-by. 

And so I walked homewards, thinking much of 
Dunsford's mild wisdom, and how beautiful it is 
to see old age gracefully filling its high vocation of 
a continually enlarging sympathy with the young, 
and tolerance for them. As Goethe says, " A man 



236 COMPANIONS OF 3IY SOLITUDE. 

has only to become old to be tolerant ; I see no 
fault committed," he adds, " which I also might 
not have committed." But then it is a Goethe who 
is speaking. Dunsford has reached to the same 
level of toleration by sheer goodness of nature. 



CHAPTER XIII. 

A LONG, solitary ride enabled me to-day to 
bring to a conclusion a chapter which I had 
■ been thinking of for some time. It is difficult for 
a man, unless he is a perfect horseman, to think 
connectedly during a ride, which is the very reason 
why horse-exercise is so good for the studious and 
the busy ; but the inspiriting nature of the exercise 
may enable the rider to overcome special points of 
difficulty in any subject he is thinking over. In 
truth, a subject of any magnitude requires to be 
thought over in all moods of mind ; and that alone 
is one great reason for maintaining thoughts long 
in mind, before expressing them in speech or writ- 
ing, that they come to be considered and recon- 
sidered under all aspects, and to be modified by the 
various fortunes and states of temperament of the 
thinker. 

There is all the difference between the thoughts 
of a man who is plodding homewards on his own 
legs, under an umbrella, and those of the same man 



238 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

who, on horseback, is springing over the elastic turf, 
careless whether wind or rain drives against him 
or not, that there was between the after-dinner 
and the next morning councils of the ancient 
Germans. 

And, indeed, the subject I was thinking of, needs 
to be considered in all weathers of the soul, for it 
is very large ; and if I could present to other minds 
what comes under this subject in mine, I should 
have said a good deal of all that I may have to say 
on most subjects. 

Without more introductory words, for a long 
introduction would be especially out of place in 
this case, the subject in question is the ait of coming 
to an end. 

Almost all human affiiirs are tedious. Every thing 
is too long. Visits, dinners, concerts, plays, speeches, 
pleadings, essays, sermons, are too long. Pleasure 
and business labor equally under this defect, or, as 
I should rather say, this fatal superabundance. 

It must not be supposed that tiresomeness belongs 
to viitue alone. Few people are more pedantic and 
tiresome than the vicious ; and I doubt whether if 
one were thrown on a desert island, and had only 
the means of rescuing Blair's works and many fic- 
tions of decidedly bad tendency, but thought to be 



C03IPANI0NS OF MY SOLITUDE. 239 

amusing, one would not exclaim, " Blair for ever ! " 
and hurl the fictions into their element, the water. 

But let us trace this lengthiness, not only in 
the results of men's works, but in their modes of 
operation. 

Which, of all defects, has been the one most fatal 
to a good style ? The not knowing when to come to 
an end. Take some inferior writer's works. Dis- 
miss nearly all the adjectives ; when he uses many 
substantives, either in juxtaposition, or in some de- 
pendence on each other, reduce him to one ; do the 
same thing with the verbs ; finally, omit all the 
adverbs ; and you will, perhaps, find out that this 
writer had something to say, which you might never 
have discovered, if you had not removed the super- 
fluous words. Indeed, in thinking of the kind of 
writing that is needed, I am reminded of a stanza 
in a wild Arab song, which runs thus : — 

"Terrible he rode along, 

With his Yemen sword for aid; 
Ornament it carried none, 
But the notches on the blade." * 

So, in the best writing, only that is ornament which 

* See Taifs Magazine, July, 1850, for what seems to be 
an admirable translation of a most remarkable poem " of 
an age earlier than that of Mahomet." 



340 COMPANIONS OF MT SOLITUDE. 

shows some service done, which has some dint of 
thought about it. 

Then there is a whole class of things which, though 
good in themselves, are often entirely spoilt by being 
carried out too far and inopportunely. Such are 
punctiliousness, neatness, order, labor of finish, and 
even accuracy. The man who does not know how 
to leave oft', will make accuracy frivolous and vexa- 
tious. And so with all the rest of these good things, 
people often persevere with them so inaptly and so 
inopportunely as to contravene all their real merits. 
Such people put me in mind of plants which, be- 
longing to one country and having been brought to 
another, persist in flowering in those months in 
which they, or their ancestors, were used to flower 
in the old country. There is one in a garden near 
me which in February delights to show the same 
gay colors for a day or two here, in these northern 
climes, with which it was wont to indulge the far-off* 
inhabitants of countries near the Black Sea. It is 
in vain that I have remonstrated with this precocious 
shrub about its showing its good qualities at so in- 
appropriate a period ; and in fact it can make so 
good an answer to any man who thus addresses it, 
that, perhaps, it is better to say nothing and pass 
by, thinking only of our own faults in this respect — 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 241 

and then, indeed, the shrub will not have flowered 
quite in vain, if it has been only for a single day. 

A similar error in not knowing when to leave off 
occurs in the exercise of the critical faculty, which 
some men use till they have deadened the creative : 
and, in like manner, men cavil and dissect and dis- 
pute till that which was merely meant as a means of 
discovering en^or and baffling false statement, becomes 
the only end they care about, — the truth for them. 

But a far more important field for this error of 
superabundance, is in the vices of mankind. If 
men had but known when to leave off, what would 
have become of ambition, avarice, gluttony, quar- 
relling, cruelty? Men go on conquering for con- 
quering's sake, as they do hoarding for hoarding's 
sake. If it be true that Marlborough went on gain- 
ing needless victories, wasting uncalled-for blood 
and treasure, what a contemptible thing it is ! I 
say, " if" he did so, for but a little investigation 
into history shows one how grievously men have 
been misrepresented ; and, not having looked into 
the matter, I will not take the responsibility of the 
accusation on myself. But the instance, if just, is 
an apt one ; and, certainly, there are many similar 
instances in great commanders to bear it out. But 
16 



242 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

what a contemptible application of talent it is, that 
a man should go on doing something very well 
which is not wanted, and should make work for 
himself that he may shine, or at least be occupied. 
It is absolutely childish. Such children have great 
conquerors been. 

It is a grand thing for a man to know when he 
has done his work. How majestic, for instance, is 
the retirement of Sylla, Diocletian, and Charles the 
Fifth. These men may not afford particularly spot- 
less instances, but we must make the most of those 
we have. There are very few men who know how 
to quit any great office, or to divest themselves of 
any robe of power. 

How much, again, this error of not knowing 
when to leave off', pervades the various pursuits of 
men ! How it is to be seen in art and literature ; 
how much too in various professions and various 
crafts ! The end is lost sight of in a foolish exercise 
of some facility in dealing with the means ; as when 
a man goes on writing for writing's sake, having 
nothing more to tell us ; or when a man who exer- 
cises some craft moderately well for the sake of 
gain, confines himself to that craft and is a crafts- 
man nowhere else, when the gain is no longer 
needful for him. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 243 

But it may be said, why speak of the art of leav- 
ing oft'? the instances you have given might some- 
times be put under the head of not knowing liow to 
begin ; or, at any rate, they might more legiti- 
mately come under the heads of the various evil 
passions and habits to which they seem to belong. 
I do not altogether deny this, but at the same time 
I wish to show that there is an art of leaving off 
which may be exercised independently, if I may so 
express it, of the various affections of the mind. 

This art will depend greatly upon a just apj^reci- 
ation of form and proportion. Where this propor- 
tion is wanting in men's thoughts or lives, they 
become one-sided. The mind enters into a peculiar 
slavery, and hardens into a creature of mere habits 
and customs. The comparative youthfulness of 
men of genius, which has often been noticed, results 
from their having a finer sense of proportion than 
other men, which prevents their being enslaved by 
the things which gradually close up the avenues of 
the soul. They, on the contrary, hold to Nature till 
the last, and would partake, in some measure, if it 
may be so, of her universality. 

I hardly know any thing that serves to give us a 
greater notion of the importance of proportion than 
the fact made known to us by chemistry, that but a 



244 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

few elements mingled together in different propor- 
tions give things of the most different nature (as we 
suppose) and different efficiency. This fact, after a 
consideration of the infinitely great as appreciated 
by the telescope, and the infinitely small as divulged 
by the microscope, is to my mind the most signifi- 
cant in physics. 

I fear, without more explanation, I shall hardly 
make myself understood here. I mean that this 
fact in chemistry affords a high idea of the impor- 
tance of proportion ; and the error we have been 
considering is one that mainly arises from dispro- 
portion. 

For instance, this want of power to leave off 
often shows an inadequate perception of the propor- 
tion which all proceedings here ought to bear to 
time. Every thing is a function of time, as the 
mathematicians would well express it. Then only 
consider what needful demands there are on that 
time : what forms, compliments, civilities, offices 
of friendship, relationship, and duty, have to be 
transacted. Consider the interruptions of life. I 
have often thought how hardly these bear upon the 
best and most capable of men. Perhaps there are 
not many more than a thousand persons in the long 
roll of men who have done any thing very great for 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 245 

mankind. Nations should have kept guard at their 
doors, as we fancy, that they might work imdis- 
turbed ; but, instead of that, domestic misery, pov- 
erty, eiTor, and affliction of all kinds no doubt 
disturbed and distracted them, — not without its 
enlightenment, and not perhaps to be wholly regret- 
ted for their sakes. But has any one thing so 
misled them and counteracted their abilities so much 
as this want of proportion I am speaking of, aris- 
ing from their ignorance or inability to leave off ? 
which has limited their efforts to one thing, — has 
made the warrior a warrior only, incapable of deal- 
ing with his conquests ; the statesman a man of 
business and devices only, so that he gains power 
but cannot govern ; the man of letters a master of 
phrases only ; the man of so-called science a man, 
like the Greek philosophers, who could only talk 
about science, — skilful in that, but never having 
left off that talking to make a single expeiiment. 

But surely there might be a breadth of purpose and 
extent of pursuit without inane versatility. As 
things are, it is not often that you find any one who 
holds his art, accomplishment, function, or busi- 
ness, in an easy disengaged way, like a true gentle- 
man, so that he can bear criticism upon his doings 
in it nobly or indifferently, who is other than a kind 



246 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

of pedagogue. Much more difficult is it to find a 
man who sees the work before him in its just pro- 
portions and does it, yet does not make out of his 
work an obstacle to his perception of what besides 
is good and needful ; and who keeps the avenues 
of his mind open to influences other than those 
which immediately surround him. 

I am ashamed when I think of the want of cul- 
tivation even in those who are reckoned most culti- 
vated people ; and not so much of their want of 
cultivation, as their want of the power of continu- 
ous cultivation. Few, therefore, can endure leisure, 
or in fact can carry other burdens than those which 
they have been used to — like mules accustomed to 
carry panniers or pack-saddles in mountainous 
countries, which steer their way when free from 
their burdens just as if they still bore them, allow- 
ing always the distance between the rocks and 
themselves which was necessary to clear their load- 
ed panniers ; a mode of proceeding which exceed- 
ingly alarms and astonishes the traveller mounted 
on these mules, till he understands the reason of It. 
Both men and mules are puzzled at having some- 
thing new to undertake : and indeed the art of 
leaving off" judiciously is but the art of beginning 
something else which needs to be done. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 247 

But if there is any thing in which the beauty and 
the wisdom of knowing when to leave off is partic- 
ularly manifested, it is in behavior. And how rare 
is beautiful behavior ; greatly by reason of the want 
of due proportion in the characters and objects of 
most persons, and from their want of some percep- 
tion of the whole of things. Let any man run 
over in his mind the ciixle of his friends and ac- 
quaintances ; also, if he is a well-i^ead man, of 
those whom he has become acquainted with in his- 
tory or biography ; and he will own how few are, 
or have been, persons of beautiful behavior, of real 
gi'eatness of mind. 

This greatness of mind which shows itself daily 
in behavior, and also in conduct when you take the 
whole of a life, may co-exist with foibles, with 
stains, with perversities, with ignorance, with short- 
comings of any and of every kind. But there is 
one thing which is characteristic of it, and that is, 
its freedom from limitation. No one pursuit, end, 
aim, or occupation permanently sullies its percep- 
tions. It may be wicked for a time as David, cruel 
for a time as Ceesar, even false ; but these are only 
passing forms of mind ; and there is still room for 
virtue, piety, self-restraint, and clemency. Its in- 
telligence is not a mirror obedient to private im- 



248 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

pulses that reflects only that which its will com- 
mands for the time ; but gives candidly some 
reflection of all that passes by. Hence, by God's 
blessing, it will know how to leave 03"; whereas, 
on the contrary, the mind which is hedged in by 
the circumstances and ideas of one passion, or pur- 
suit, is painfully limited, be that passion or pursuit 
what it may. 

Observe the calmness of great men, noting by 
the way, that real greatness belongs to no station 
and no set of circumstances. This calmness is the 
cause of their beautiful behavior. Vanity, injus- 
tice, intemperance, are all smallnesses arising from 
a blindness to proportion in the vain, the unjust, 
and the intemperate. Whereas, no one thing, un- 
less it be the love of God, has such a continuous 
hold on a great mind as to seem all in all to it. The 
great know, unconsciously, more of the real bene- 
ficent secret of the world : there is occasional re- 
pose of soul for them. How can such men be 
subdued by money, be enclosed by the ideas of a 
party, or a faction, be so shut up in a profession, an 
art, or a calling, as to see naught else, or to believe 
only in one form of expression for what is beauti- 
ful and good.'* 

Passing by a mountain stream, I once beheld an 



COMPANIONS OF M7 SOLITUDE. 249 

unfortunate trunk of a tree, which, having been shot 
down the side of a hill and thus sent on, as the 
custom is in those countries, down the stream to 
find its way to the haven, had unfortunately come 
too near a strong eddy, which caught it up and 
ever whirled it back again. How like the genei'al 
course of man ! I thought. Down came the log 
with apparent vigor and intent each time, and it 
seemed certain that it would drive onwards in the 
course designed for it ; but each time it swirled 
round and was sent back again. Ever and anon it 
came with greater force, described a wider arc, and 
surely now, I thought, it will shoot dov^n on its 
way : but no, it paused for a moment, felt the influ- 
ence of its fatal eddy, and then returned with the 
like force it had come down with. I waited and 
waited, groups of holiday-making people passed by 
me wondering, I dare say, what I stayed there to 
see ; but unmindful of any of us, it went on per- 
forming its circles. I returned in the evening ; the 
poor log was still there, busy as ever in not going 
onwards ; and I went upon my journey, feeling very 
melancholy for this tree, and thinking there was 
little hope for it. It may even now be at its vain 
gyrations, knowing no rest, and yet making no ad- 
vance to the seas for which it was destined. 



250 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

So let it not be with us : caught up by no mean 
eddies which draw us to the side of the stream and 
compel us to revolve in the same narrow circlet of 
passion, of prejudice, of party, of ambition, of de- 
sire ; finding in constancy no limitation, in devoted- 
ness of pursuit no narrowness of heart, or thought, 
or creed ; choosing as the highway of our career 
one which widens and deepens ever as we move 
along it ; let us float on to that unmeasured ocean of 
thought and endeavor where the truly great in soul 
(often gi'eat because humble, for it is the pride of 
man which keeps him to small purposes and pre- 
vents his knowing when to leave off with earthly 
things), where the truly and the simply great shall 
find themselves in kindred waters of far other depth 
than those which they were first launched out 
upon. 

After writing down the foregoing thoughts upon 
the art of coming to an end, which had been the 
subject of my morning's ride, I went out upon the 
lawn to refresh myself with the evening air. It 
was very clear : the stars and the moon were in all 
their splendor ; and the shadows of the trees lay 
quietly upon the grass, as if the leaves, for the most 
part so restless, were now sleeping on their stems, 
like the birds upon the branches. 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 25 1 

I had resolved that this reverie, a fitting one to 
conclude v^^ith, should be the last of which I would 
give an account. There is something sad about 
the end of any thing, whether it be the building of 
a palace, the construction of a great history, like 
that of Gibbon, the finishing of a child's baby-house, 
or the conclusion of some small, unpretending work 
in literature. The first feelings of an author soon 
pass by. Those hopes and those fears which quite 
agitate the young pretender to fame are equally 
dulled by failure or success. Meanwhile, the re- 
sponsibility of writing does not grow less, at least 
in any thoughtful mind. With the little knowledge 
we have on any subject, how we muster audacity to 
write upon it, I hardly know. 

These signs, too, that we use for communicating 
our thoughts, which we call language, what a 
strange debris it is of the old languages, — a result of 
the manifold corruptions of childish prattle, of the 
uncouth talk of soldiers sent into conquered prov- 
inces, of the vain efforts of rude husbandmen to catch 
an unfamiliar tongue. And, if we went back to the 
old languages, with equal knowledge of their ante- 
cedents, we should probably find that they also were 
lamentable gatherings from forgotten tongues, huts 
out of the ruins of palaces. 



252 COMPANIONS OF M7 SOLITUDE. 

So much for the vehicle in which we convey our 
thoughts, imperfect enough in themselves. 

Then, if we turn to the people, the manners, the 
customs, and the laws we have to act upon with 
these thoughts, there, too, what a mass of confusion 
is presented to us, collected from all parts of the 
earth and from all periods of history. 

As I thought of this, I seemed to see the various 
races who had occupied this very spot flit by — 
Briton, Roman, Saxon, Norman, each with his laws, 
manners, and customs imprinted on his bearing, the 
wrecks of mighty empires shown in the very accou- 
trements of each shadowy form as it went by. And 
this mass of strangely mingled materials is the sub- 
stance that these impei-fect thoughts expressed in 
imperfect language have to act upon. 

And, then, what say these stars with their all-elo- 
quent silence, seeming to reduce all our schemes 
into nothings, to make our short-lived perplexities 
ludicrous, ourselves and our ways like a song that is 
not sung? What a cold reply they seem to give to 
all human works and questionings. 

But, said I to myself, such trains of thought may 
easily be pursued too far ; we must not bring in the 



COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 253 

immensities about us and within us to crush our en- 
deavors. Here we are ; let stars, or bygone times, 
or the wrecks of nations, or the corruptions of lan- 
guage, say or show what they will. There is some- 
thing also to be done by us : we have our little 
portions of the reef of coral yet to build up. If we 
have not time to become wise, we have time enough 
to become resigned. If we have rude and confused 
material to work upon, and uncouth implements to 
work with, less must be required from us ; and, as 
for these stars, the true meaning to be got from them 
is in reality an encouraging one. 

Some men have thought that one star or planet 
befriended them ; some, another. This man grew 
joyful wdien the ascendant star of his nativity came 
into conjunction with Jupiter, favorable to his des- 
tinies ; and that man grew pale when his planet 
came into opposition with Saturn, noxious to his 
horoscope, threatening the " House of Life." Nor 
is astrology extinct : science only lends it more 
meaning, but not a private one for kings or poten- 
tates. These stars say something very significant to 
all of us : and each man has the whole hemisphere 
of them, if he will but look up, to counsel and be- 
friend him. In the morning time, they come not 
within ken, when they would too much absorb our 



254 COMPANIONS OF MY SOLITUDE. 

attention, and hinder our necessary business, but in 
the evening, they appear to us, to chasten over-per- 
sonal thoughts, to put dow^n what is exorbitant in 
earth-bred fancies, and to encourage those endeav- 
ors and aspirations whicli meet with no full response 
from any single planet, certainly not from the one 
we are on, but which derive their meaning and their 
end from the vastness and the harmony of the whole 
of God-directed nature and of life. 

So thinking, I was enabled for a moment to see, 
or rather to feel, that the threads of our poor human 
affairs, tangled as they seem to be, might yet be in- 
terwoven harmoniously with the great chords of love 
and duty that bind the universe together. And so I 
returned to the house, and said " Good night " cheer- 
fully to the friendly stars, which did not now seem 
to oppress me by their magnitude, or their multi- 
tude, or their distance. 



INDEX. 



A. 

AcADEMus, groves of, have a competitor, 141. 
Accomplishments aid in getting rid of small anxieties, 187. 
Accuracy spoilt by being carried too far, 240. 
Administrative officer suggested, 103. 
Admiration, insincerity in, to be avoided, 205. 
Advice to a descendant who would retrieve the fortunes of 
the Author's family, 53; to men in small authority, 208. 
Affection not generally inspired by the Church of England, 

2l6. 

Affections of the mind, skill in dealing with, to be ac- 
quired, 171. 

Agreement amongst men, in thought, impossible, 210. 

Amusement necessary for man, 34-36 ; should be contrived 
for him, 36; poverty of England's resources, with re- 
spect to, 204. 

Anglo-Saxons can afford to cultivate art, 36. 

Annals of the poor, familiar words in, 104. 

Arab song, verse of, applied to writing, 239. 

Art, the pursuit of, often incompatible with fortune, 59. 

Art of coming to an end, largeness of the subject, 238; 
may be exercised independently of the affections of the 
mind, 243; ignorance of, has limited men's efforts, 245; 
is but the art of beginning something new, 246. 

Astrology not extinct, 253. 

Author's thoughts on the future fortunes of his family, 46. 

Author, the first feelings of one soon pass away, 251. 



256 INDEX. 

Authority on great subjects, scarcely any mind so free 
from its influence that it can boldly apprehend the ques- 
tion for itself, 147. 

13. 

Bacon, remark from him on the need of a friend, 53 ; an 

instance of the compatibility of literature with action, 

72. 
Behavior, the beauty and wisdom of knowing when to 

leave off particularly manifested in, 247; beauty of, very 

rare, 247. 
Bereavements, 199. 

Blair, his works preferred to fictions, 238. 
Blame often good, but only as good fiction, 179. 
Books a resource against physical and mental storms, 169. 
Borgias, the cause of new Post-office regulations, 26. 
Breadth of purpose might exist without inane versatility, 

245- 
Brutus, how his part might be played in the law, 8. 
Burke, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 

action, 72. 
Burleigh, Lord, speech of his to his gown of state, 186. 

c. 

Caesar, an instance that literature is compatible with great 

actions, 71; his cruelty consistent with greatness of 

mind, 247. 
Calumny, ordinary source of, 176; most men of many 

transactions subject to, 176 ; to be looked upon as pure 

misfortune, 176; way of treating it, 176; too much stress 

should not be laid on it, 177. 
Camoens, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 71 ; quotation from, 155. 
Carlyle, Mr., says that a great writer creates a want for 

himself, 72. 



INDEX. 257 

Censoriousness the inventor of many sins, 31. 

Cervantes, an instance that literature is compatible w^ith 
action, 71. 

Chance, delights in travelling, 199. 

Character, diversities of, met w^ith in travel, a delight, 200. 

Charity, taught by error, 15 ; requires the sternest labor, 
33; one of the most difficult things, 34; not comprised 
in remedying material evils, 34; often mixed up with a 
mash of sentiment and sickly feeling, 89; a difficult and 
perplexed thing, 165. 

Charles V., anecdote of, 210; his retirement majestic, 242. 

Christianity partly to blame for the over-rigid views with 
reference to unchastity, 87 ; to correct political econo- 
my, 100; made a stumbling-block to many, 106. 

Christian temper, opportunities for its manifestation af- 
forded to all functionaries connected with travelling, 
20S. 

Church, qualities to be sought for in, 24; perfection to be 
aimed at in, 217. 

Churches, advantages of their being open, 218. 

Church, the, obstacles to the reform of, 218; evil of un- 
necessary articles of faith in, 219. 

Church-going, hindrances to, amongst the poor in Eng- 
land, 105. 

Church of England, the, suffers from opposite attacks, 
214; its foundations need more breadth and solidity, 
216; too impersonal, 216; deficiency of heartiness in, 
217. 

Church questions, opposing facts and arguments in, sel- 
dom come into each other's presence, 24. 

Chemistry affords a high idea of the importance of pro- 
portion, 243. 

Civilization ought to render the vicissitudes of life less 
extreme, 87; its advance tells less upon women than 
upon men, 234. 

Climate of England, difficult to live in, 7. 
17 



258 INDEX. 

Colleges an instance of misplaced labor, 12. 

Colonization, room for improvement in, 213. 

Coleridge, his explanation of the word " world," 106. 

Competition, evils of, considerable, 33; in length of ser- 
mons, 33. 

Competition in puritanical demonstration, injurious to 
sincerity, 33 ; the child of fear, 33. 

Companionship in travelling, dangers of, 196. 

Companions, qualities which would render them a gain 
198; much to be learned from, in travel, 198. 

Confessor, good functions of, might be fulfilled bj many 
Protestants, 106. 

Confidence, in making any, you lose the royal privilege 
of beginning the discourse on that topic, 138; should 
be put aside in bearing misfortune, 170; origin of, 170; 
diiBcult to lay aside, 170. 

Conquerors, great, have committed the error of super- 
abundance, 241. 

Constitutional governments have their price, 102. 

Constitution of England, advantages of, 211; disadvan- 
tages of, 212. 

Contempt not justifiable in mortals, 108. 

Conventionality, an enemy to the opposers of the "great 
sin of great cities," 108; the adoration offered up to 
worldliness, 108; increases the great sin of great cities, 
109. 

Conventionalities, small, women more slavish to them 
than men, 234. 

Conviction, unlimited power of a spirit resulting from, 
148; its expansive power, 153. 

Counteraction the true strategy in attacking vice, 97. 

Country in winter like a great man in adversity, 16. 

Courier, Paul Louis, an instance that literature is compat- 
ible with action, 71. 

Critical faculty, error in exercising it too much, 241. 

Criticism, compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's 



[NDEX. 259 

fresco of the Last Supper, 23 ; object in listening to it, 
224. 

Cultivation, a potent remedy for the " great sin of great 
cities," 97 ; metaphor on, 232. 

Cultivation, general, the want of, cripples individual ex- 
cellence, 7; the want of, prevents the enjoyment of sci- 
entific discovery, 12. 

Cultivation, continuous, should be the object for states- 
men and all governing people, 98; the power of, defi- 
cient in most men, 246. 

Customs, evil, spread rapidly, 203 ; good, make way slow- 
ly, 203. 

Cyrus, his mode of keeping the Lydians tame, 36. 

D. 

David, his wickedness consistent with greatness of mind, 
247. 

Day, a, an epitome of a life, 193. 

Dead level in men's character, notion of, a mistake, 228. 

Descartes, an instance that literature is compatible with 
action, 71. 

Description of a foreign scene from a bridge, 159. 

Despair the slave-driver to many crimes, 86. 

Despotism, the sternest, often found in social life, 41. 

Differences, great, amongst thoughtful men about great 
subjects should not be stifled, 214. 

Difficulties, intellectual and spiritual, great hearing of, 
suggested, 24. 

Diocletian, his retirement majestic, 242. 

Diplomatic services peculiarly fit to be performed by liter- 
ary men, 73. 

Disasters become possessions, 172. 

Disciples do not aid the discovery of truth, 193. 

Disproportion a main cause of the error of superabun- 
dance, 245. 



26o INDEX. 

Dissatisfaction with their own work, advice to those who 
suffer from, iS6. 

Division of labor partly a cause of ignorance, I2. 

Divorce, law of, may require modification, 146. 

Domestic annoyances, mischief and vexations caused by, 
43. 

Domestic servants particularly liable to the slavery of con- 
ventionality, 109; temptations of, no; improvements in 
the management of, suggested, no. 

Doubts on the greatest matters the result of the falsifica- 
tions of our predecessors, 22. 

Duelling disarmed by public opinion, 151. 

Dutch, the, their " forget book," used for the mishaps of a 
journey, 194. 

Duties often very dubious, 164. 

Dwellings, improvement of, one means of enabling the 
wages of the poor to go further, 100. 

E. 

Education, a potent remedy for the "great sin of great 
cities," 97; must continue through life, 161; larger views 
of, required, 161 ; suffers from religious differences, 214; 
enabling powers of, 226. 

EUesmere's story, 118. 

Emerson, quotation from his chapter on Beauty of Nature, 
207. 

Emigration not the only remedy for poverty, 100. 

End of any thing, the, sadness of, 245. 

England, foreign notions of, 122; Constitution of, its ad- 
vantages, 210; its disadvantages, 211. 

English people, their genius severe, 36; would not be 
cramped by judicious regulations, 64; description of, 
194. 

Errors made into sins by miscalling them, 32. 

Evil carries with it its teachings, 95. 



INDEX. 261 

Evils, their true proportions often not understood, 171. 
Experience gained by suffering, 189; of life, an aid in 
bearing injustice, 183. 



Fable of a choice being given to men on their entrance 

into life, 58. 
Family vanity exasperates rigid virtue, 90. 
Father, a thoroughly judicious, one of the rarest creatures, 

94- 

Felicity a hostage to Fortune, 1S9. 

Fiction has filled women's heads with untrue views of hu- 
man life, 97; may be better than nothing for the mind, 
98. 

Finance, room for impVovement in, 213. 

Flowers, their names show that poets lived in the country, 
21. 

Folly will find a place even at the side of princes, 64. 

Foresight crushes all but men of great resolution, 56. 

Freedom, clamor for, a chief obstacle to its possession, 10; 
from restraint in travelling, 199. 

Freemasonry among children, 44. 

Friend, the advantage of one, 179. 

Friends not of a prolific nature, 53. 

G. 

Gayety not necessarily an element of wickedness, 28. 
Gardens, the love of, the last refuge of art in the minds 

of Englishmen, 4.8. 
Garrick, speech of Johnson's to him, 188. 
Generosity of mean people does not deceive the bystander, 

150. 
Germans, simplicity of, 121. 
Goethe feared to enter upon biblical criticism, 22 ; says 



262 INDEX. 

that no creature is happy, or even free, except in the 
circuit of law, 93 ; remark by him on toleration, 236. 

Gospel, the, prevents the triumph of despair, 86. 

Government unfit for women, 145; many improvements 
in, required, 213; sound reform in, difficult, 213. 

Grand thoughts adverse to any abuse of the passions, 96. 

Great men, their abilities counteracted by a want of pro- 
portion, 245; cause of their calmness, 248; and repose 
of soul, 248; their freedom from limitation, 247. 

Great mind, no one thing, unless it be the love of God, 
seems all in all to it, 248. 

Great sin of great cities, the, pointed out, 83; mournful- 
ness of, 83 ; an accurate concentration of the evils of 
society, 83; nature of, 84; degrades the race, 85; feel- 
ings of the people concerned in it, 85 ; main cause of, 
86; over-rigid views in reference to unchastity a cause 
of, 87; charity in the virtuous recommended towards, 
88; want of obedience to Christian precepts in reference 
to, 89; want of charity towards, makes error into crime, 
90; family pride prevents charity in, 90; ill-management 
of parents a cause of, 92 ; uncleanliness of men a cause 
of, in the lower classes, 94; cause of, applying to men, 
95; the want of other thoughts one source of, 96; edu- 
cation and cultivation potent remedies for, 97 ; remedies 
for, 99; conventionality aids to increase it, 108; domes- 
tic servants frequent victims to, 109; improvement in 
men to be hoped for as a remedy, iii ; love a preventa- 
tive of, 112. 

Greatness of mind may co-exist with shortcomings of 
every kind, 247; its characteristic, 247; belongs to no 
station, 247. 

Greatness of thought or nature not always connected with 
resounding deeds, 229. 

Greeks, perhaps prevented from becoming dominant by a 
cultivation of many arts, 37. 

Grotius, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 72. 



INDEX. 263 

H. 

Happiness, personal, small amount of, needed, 189. 

Heart, the human, tyranny of, how proved, 203. 

Hindrances to men's best endeavors often slight, 225. 

History of the world, the, compared to the prints of Leo- 
nardo da Vinci's fresco of the Last Supper, 23. 

Home should be made very happy to children, 93. 

Horse exercise advantages of, 237. 

House of Commons, improvement in, suggested, 212. 

House of Lords, how to supply to it an element of popu- 
lar influence, 212. 

Human affairs almost all tedious, 23S; threads of, might 
be interwoven with the cords that bind the universe to- 
gether, 254. 

Human beings, their power to maintain their structure 
unimpaired in a hostile element shown in the law, 11. 

Human life, mischief of unsound representations of, 98. 

Humanity, a low view of, probably the greatest barrier to 
the highest knowledge, 96. 

Humility, taught by error, 15, 21 ; promotes cheerfulness, 
21 ; in dealing with misfortunes, 174. 

Humor the deepest part of some men's nature, 191. 

Hurry, wise men do not, without good reason, 204. 

Hypocrisy the homage which vice pays to virtue, io8. 

Hypocrites pronounced the choice society of the world, 88. 

I. 

Ignorance partly proceeds from division of labor, 12; a 

hindrance to Church reform, 218. 
Imagination, want of, in most men confines them to the 

just appreciation of those natures which are like their 

own, 178. 
Indulgence requires no theory to support it, 95. 
Infelicities belong to the state below, 189. 



264 INDEX. 

Injudicious dress, great suffering caused by, 42. 

Injurious comment on people's conduct, considerations 
which should prevent it, or console the sufferers, 177. 

Injustice a very different thing from misfortune, and in- 
commensurable with it, 179; arises from blindness to 
proportion, 246. 

Insincerity about religion, its continuance prevents much 
good, 214. 

Intemperance arises from blindness to proportion, 246. 

Intellectual energies of cultivated men want directing to 
the great questions, 219. 

Intelligent men liberal in assigning the limits of power, 67. 

Intelligent public opinion will prevent despotism in a min- 
ister, 67. 

Intercommunication between rich and poor should be 
facilitated, 103. 

Investigation into prices will prevent people from running 
madly after cheapness, lOO. 

Irrationality of mankind to be prepared for in all under- 
takings, 222. 



James the First of Scotland, an instance of the compati- 
bility of literature with action, 72. 

Johnson, Dr., one of his highest delights, 140; speech of 
his to Garrick, 188. 

Journey, a, how dissimilar to a life, 193. 

Judas Iscariot might have done better than to hang him- 
self, 91. 

Justice not to be expected in this world, 1S3; idea of its 
personification, 1S3. 

K. 

Kindness not an encourager of the " great sin of great 
cities," 91. 



INDEX. 265 

KnoAvledge, its doubts a hindrance to vigorous statement, 
28; of vice not knowledge of the world, 95; of the 
world, how gained, 96 ; the means and the end in trav- 
elling, 194. 

L. 

Labor of finish spoilt by being carried too far, 240. 

Lacedaemonians acknowledged the duties of a father, 165. 

Language, change of, in travelling, a delight, 201 ; imper- 
fections of, 251. 

Law, loss in, 8; improvement in, to be hoped for from 
general improvement of the people, 8; satire falls short 
when aimed at its practices, 10; maintained as a mystery 
by its adjuncts, 11 ; many admirable men to be found in 
all grades of, 11 ; compared to a fungus, 47. 

Laws of supply and demand overruled by higher influ- 
ences, 150. 

Lawyers, time spent at their offices the saddest portion of 
man's existence, 10; not answerable for all the evils at- 
tributed to their proceedings, 10 ; work of, compared with 
that of statesmen, 172. 

Lengthiness fatal to a good style, 239. 

Leonardo da Vinci, thoughts suggested by his fresco of 
the Last Supper, 23. 

Life, objects of, as regards this world, 28; the bustle of, 
keeps sadness at the bottom of the heart, 50. 

Limitation, freedom from, a characteristic of greatness of 
mind, 247. 

Literary men more of cosmopolites than other men, 73 ; 
would be improved by real business, 73 ; plan for re- 
warding them proposed, 74. 

Literary work requires many of the qualifications of a man 
of business, 70. 

Literature affords a choice of men to a statesman, 70. 

Log caught by an eddy, man's course compared to one, 
249. 



266 INDEX. 

Logic halts sometimes when applied to charity, 88. 

Loneliness of a thoughtful man, i8. 

Lorenzo de' Medici, an instance of the compatibility of 
literature with action, 72. 

Love cannot be schooled much, 98; implies infinite re- 
spect, 112; power of, 112; the memory of, must prevent 
"the great sin of great cities," 112; of God need not 
withdraw us from our fellow-men, 34. 

Luther, quotation from, on tribulation, 86; saying of his 
to his wife, 182. 

M. 

Machiavelli, an instance of the compatibility of literature 
with action, 71. 

Malignities, why fostered in small towns and villages, 36. 

Man, his faculties frequently appear inadequate to his sit- 
uation, 13; generally his own worst antagonist, 20; be- 
comes deformed by surrendering himself to any one 
pursuit, 73; an isolated being, 230; one rarely found 
who holds his art, accomplishment, function, or busi- 
ness in an easy disengaged way, 245 ; one whose mind 
is open to other influences than those which surround 
him, difficult to find, 246; his course like a log caught 
by an eddy, 249. 

Marlborough, his victories, if needless, contemptible, 341. 

Marriage, unhappiness in, does not justify " the great sin 
of great cities," 146; our present notions of, probably 
imperfect, 147. 

Medical men, opportunities of, for communication with 
the poor, 107. 

Men require amusement as much as children, 44; occa- 
sionally deceived by theories about equality, 94; ill pre- 
pared for social life, 196 ; how to fit them for social life, 
197 ; will be more easy to deal with as they become 
greater, 227 ; their pursuits pervaded by the error of not 
knowing when to leave off, 240; small number of, who 



INDEX. 267 

have done anything great for mankind, 244; compared 
to mules carrying burdens in mountainous countries, 

246. 
Men, the greatest, compared to fig-trees in England, 192. 
Men, great, imaginative, never utterly enslaved by their 

functions, 200. 
Men of genius, their comparative youthfulness results 

from their fine sense of proportion, 243. 
Men of the world, self-sufficiency of, 148; their probable 

objection to the proposed remedies for " the great sin of 

great cities," 149; reply to their objection, 149. 
Mendoza, an instance that literature is compatible with 

action, 71. 
Mental preparation for travelling essential, 195. 
Metaphor, probably the introducer of frightful errors, 22 ; 

essential in narration, 22. 
Metastasio, passage from, 190. 
Milton, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 

action, 72 ; his "Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce,'' 

arguments contained therein not easily answered, 147. 
Mind, repose of, gained by travel, 198. 
Minister of education, duties which might devolve on one, 

104. 
Ministers of religion, their temptations to err, 106. 
Mirabeau, men like him will have an aversion to the 

"great sin of great cities," 113. 
Miseries of private life require to be kept down by wise 

and good thoughts, 41. 
Misfortune often makes men ungenerous, 51. 
Misfortunes exercise all the moods and faculties of a man, 

172; wise way of dealing with them, 174; mean, often 

most difficult to bear, 184. 
Misplaced labor, quantity of, 7 ; observable in schools, col- 
leges, and parliaments, 12. 
Modern cultivation does not necessarily tend to subdue 

greatness, 229. 



268 INDEX. 

Monomaniacs, too little account taken of them, 176. 
Moral writings, the great triumph of, 59. 
Murillo, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred gen- 
ius, 204. 

N. 

Napoleon, his invasion of Russia a good opportunity for 
working out his errors, 13; an instance that literature is 
compatible with great actions, 71 ; probable effect of his 
worldly wisdom in not remembering too much his Rus- 
sian campaign, 173. 

Nations, benefits arising from intercommunication of, 203; 
differences between, small when compared with their 
resemblances, 203. 

Native land, a serious place to every man, 19S. 

Nature, considerable address required to cope with her, 12 ; 
goddness of, in permitting error, 20; habitual apprecia- 
tion of, to be cultivated, 207. 

Neatness spoilt by being carried too far, 240. 

Neglect, aids in bearing it, 180. 

Newton, change of study his recreation, 186. 

o. 

Obloquy, consolation in bearing it, 175. 

Obstruction to be encountered by men in power, 65. 

Obtrusiveness of thoughts, 17. 

Officers of State ought to prevent much private expense in 

law, 9. 
Opinion, the general body of, very fluent, 175. 
Originality, diseased desire for, 230. 

P. 

Parents, ill management of, a common cause of " the 

great sin of great cities," 92. 
Parliaments an instance of misplaced labor, 12. 



INDEX. 269 

Paternal duties, imperative, 165; difficult to fulfil, 166; 

forgetfulness of, encourages immorality, 167. 
Peace brings with it a sensation of power, 79. 
Pedagogues, most men become such, 245. 
Peel, Sir Robert, his death inopportune, 210; his good 

qualities, 211; great loss in him, 213; sketch of his 

character, 222. 
Peerages for life desirable, 213. 
Pensions should generally be given to the persons who 

could have done the things for which such rewards are 

given, but who have not done them, 74. 
People, modern, a mass of confusion, 352. 
Pine wood, description of one, 78. 

Pharisees pronounced the choice society of the world, 88. 
Philosophy, sobriety of mind from, 187. 
Physical works, waste and obstruction in, 13. 
Plato, his harsh opinion of poets accounted for, 22. 
Plausibility makes injustice hard to unravel, 124. 
Pleasure, Spanish verses on, 17 ; past, Sydney Smith's 

opinion of, 18; falls into no plan, 79. 
Politics, greater things may be done out of them than in 

them, 19. 
Poor, the limited education of, a mistake, 161 ; room for 

improvement in dealings with, 216. 
Pope Alexander the Sixth, to blame for the post-office 

regulations, 37. 
Portrait painting compared to the copies of Leonardo da 

Vinci's fresco of the Last Supper, 33. 
Poverty, the removal of, a remedy for " the great sin of 

great cities,' 99; two kinds of, 99; women endure an 

undue proportion of it, 144. 
Power, in rising to it, men fail to learn how to use it, 102. 
Practical wisdom in dealing with vexations, 174. 
Preachers, topics of, too limited, 217. 
Pride chastises with heavier hand than Penitence, 185 ; of 

man prevents his knowing when to leave off, 250. 



270 INDEX. 

Priests should facilitate the intercommunication between 
rich and poor, 103. 

Private opinions on important subjects, by whom to be 
indulged in, 57. 

Property, facilities should be afforded for the poor to be- 
come owners of, loi. 

Proportion, want of, makes men one-sided, 243; compara- 
tive youthfulness of men of genius results from their 
fine sense of, 243 ; its importance shown in chemistry, 
243 ; want of, accounts for the rarity of beautiful be- 
havior, 247. 

Protestantism, disadvantage of its closed churches, 218. 

Proverbs seldom true except for the occasion on which 
they are used, 59. 

Prudence a substantial virtue here, 7. 

Public meeting, noise made by a man there proportioned 
to his ignorance of the subject, 37. 

Public notaries suggested, 9. 

Public opinion, triumph of, over duelling, 151. 

Punctiliousness spoilt by being carried too far, 240. 

Puritan, absurd, the correlative of a wicked Pope, 27. 

Puritanism, thoughts on, 30; good as an abnegation of 
self, 30; when an evil, 31. 

Q: 

Quaker, conversation of one, 29. 

R. 

Railway legislation required earlier Government inter- 
ference, 65. 

Raphael, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred 
genius, 204. 

Rational pleasures difficult to define, 28. 

Reason, the hold of the Church on, considered, 216. 

Reasoning powers require development in women, 107. 



INDEX. 271 

Recollection one of the main delights of a journey, 
194. 

Reflection on past ambitions, sadness of, 19. 

Reform, slow progress of, 153. 

Reformers, reproach made against, 152; objects of, 151. 

Regret, almost infinite, at having missed the one desired 
happiness, 188. 

Remedies, political, often come too late, 212. 

Remorse a main obstacle to outward improvement, 85. 

Relations of life, the great, difficult of performance, 92. 

Religion, comfort of mind, from, 187; room for improve- 
ment in the proceedings of the state with respect to, 213 ; 
probable mischief produced by degrading views of, 215; 
thoughts on, should not be suppressed, 216. 

Religious spirit, deficiency of, not concealed by outward 
deeds, 150. 

Repining person, speech made to one, 58. 

Representation and transfer of property, improvement in, 
a means of enabling the wages of the poor to go fur- 
ther, 100. 

Respectability, undue care for, amongst men, 229. 

Responsibility of writing does not grow less, 251. 

Retired allowances for servants suggested, no. 

Retrospect not a very safe or wise thing, 45 ; cannot be 
avoided, 45 ; how the process of, differs from that pur- 
sued by Alnaschar, in the Arabian Nights, 45. 

Retrospection, excessive, to be avoided, 89. 

Reveries, various forms of, 61. 

Ridicule, fear of, amongst young men, 230. 

Rochefoucauld probably a dupe to impulses and affection 

51- 
Roman Catholics, some things might be adopted from 

them in forming a Church, 217. 
Roman Emperors, the probably maligned, 175. 
Rouen, scene in the Cathedral there, 217. 
Russian Campaign, a, experienced by most men, 13. 



272 



INDEX. 



S. 



Sanitary measures, delay in, 66. 

Sanatory reform gives additional power and freedom to 
mankind, 226. 

Satire becomes narrative when aimed at the Law, 10. 

Savings, the investment of, a question of the highest im- 
portance, lOI. 

Scandal a resource against dulness, 36. 

Schoc?ls an instance of misplaced labor, 12. 

Schoolmasters would form a good means of communica- 
tion with the poor, 106. 

Schoolmistresses would form a good means of communi- 
cation with the poor, 106. 

Scriptures, the, probable misrepresentations of, 23. 

Seduction a poor transaction, 163. 

Self-denial, when to be admired, 31. 

Self-inflicted suffering which cannot be turned to account 
for others, a loss, 30. 

Self-restraint the great tutor, 95. 

Sermons, competition in length of, 33 ; those we preach 
for ourselves always interesting, 1 19 ; too many preached 
217. 

Shaftesbury, an instance of the compatibility of literature 
with action, 72. 

Shelley, lines of his applied to love, 112. 

Shrewd writers often the most easy to impose upon, 51. 

Sidney, an instance that literature is compatible with ac- 
tion, 71. 

Silence, the great fellow-workman, 224. 

Sins, easy to manufacture, 31. 

Small anxieties hard to bear, 184; art in managing them, 
185 ; hard to dismiss, 1S6. 

Small errors often alter the course of a man's life, 14. 

Smith, Sydney, his opinion of past pleasure, 18. 

Smoke, suppression of, 153. 

Social abuses, erroneous views of, 85. 



INDEX. 273 

Social disabilities, the removal of, would give room for 
freedom of thought and action, 328. 

Social evils compared to old trees, 66; importance of una- 
nimity with respect to, 151. 

Social life, returns for causes of suffering in, suggested, 
41 ; men ill prepared for, 197 ; how to fit man for, 197. 

Social pleasures not necessarily wrong, 29; afford scope 
for charity, 34. 

Social troubles equal to national ones, 42. 

Socialism put forward to fill the void of government, 102. 

Socrates, his philosophy cannot be imitated here in Eng- 
land, 7. 

Somers, an instance of the compatibility of literature with 
action, 72. 

Spanish colonists in America, the first, beg that lawyers 
may not go out to their colony, 10. 

Spanish poetry, quotation from, on pleasure, 17. 

Spanish proverbs, 88. 

Stars, the, thoughts suggested by their aspect, 198 ; speak 
significantly to all, 253. 

Statesmanship, one of its great arts, 37 ; always appears 
to come too late, 63. 

Statesmen, to be looked up to as protectors from lawyers, 
9; two different things demanded from, 65; their indi- 
vidual temperament affects government, 68; tempera- 
ment desirable for, 68 ; principles to be inculcated in, 69 ; 
work of, compared with that of a lawyer, 172. 

St- John, an instance of the compatibility of literature 
with action, 72. 

Success depends upon the temperament of a man, 56; in 
life, man's faculties inadequate to, 15. 

Sudden distress and destitution amongst young women, 
how to be averted, 103. 

Sun, the, worshipped by few idolaters, 191 ; his simple 
form provoked no desire to worship, 192 ; all nature 
bending slightly forwards in a supplicating attitude to 
him, might be visible to finer senses, 192. 



274 INDEX. 

Superabundance, error of, in the vices of mankind a field 

for it, 241. 
Swift, liis imaginings not more absurd than transactions 

in the law, 10. 
Sylla, his retirement majestic, 242. 
Systems save the trouble of thinking, 69. 

T. 

Teaching difficult from want of distinct convictions, 22. 

Temperament, the best for success described, 56. 

Temple, Sir William, an instance of the compatibiRtj of 
literature with action, 72. 

Theology, science of, would not have existed if all clergy- 
men had been Christians, 156. 

Thoughts at the mercy of accident, 156; reason for main- 
taining them long on the mind, 237. 

Time, everything a function of, 244; needful demands on, 
244. 

Timidity of mind renders women the victims of conven- 
tionality, 107. 

Tiresomeness belongs not to virtue alone, 238. 

Titian, pictures of, truly admired only by a kindred gen- 
ius, 204. 

Tragedy, different phases of, 155. 

Translation compared to the copies of Leonardo da Vinci's 
fresco of The Last Supper, 23. 

Traveller, anecdote of one, 205. 

Travellers, hints to, on their behavior, 209. 

Travelling in a carriage, delights of, 140; must improve 
all men, 159; ancient mode of, compared with modern, 
196; advantages of, 198-201; enjoyments of, 201. 

Truth sustains great loss in Church questions, 24; carries 
in its hand all earthly and all heavenly consolations, 171. 

Tyranny of the weak, a fertile subject, 37 ; by whom exer- 
cised, 38; why endured, 38; the generous great sufferers 
from, 38; compared to an evil government, 38; great in 



INDEX. 275 

quiet times, 38; analysis of, 38; its cessation suggested, 
39; a common form of it, 39: reason for putting a limit 
to it, 39. 

u. 

Uncharitable speeches, a fear of, the incentive to many 

courses of evil, 91. 
Uncultivated people seldom just or tolerant, 142. 
Unhappiness, regret at having missed the one desired 

happiness a common form of, 188; medicaments for this 

form of, 188. 

V. 

Vanity arises from blindness to proportion, 153. 

Variety found in travelling diverts the mind, 198. 

Vice, its usual victims, 97. 

Vices, some of the most dangerous flourish most in soli- 
tude, 29; of mankind, a field for the error of supera- 
bundance, 241. 

Violence always loss, 18. 

Virgil, quotation from, 235. 

Virtuous, the charity recommended to them, 88. 

Visual image, which should change according to the want 
of truth in the comments upon the person seen, im- 
agined, 179. 

w. 

Wages of poor, improvement in dwellings a means of 
making them go further, 100; improvement in the rep- 
resentation and transfer of property a means of enabling 
them to go further, loi. 

Wisdom an aid in bearing injustice, 183. 

Women brought up here to be incompetent to the man- 
agement of affairs, 11 ; their fondness for merit a cause 
of their frailty, 94; rarely deceived by theories about 
equality, 94; immense importance of a better education 
to them, 107; love personal talk, 128; do not always 



276 



INDEX. 



understand each other, 136; some of the highest natures 
amongst them may be found in the lowest ranks, 141 ; 
have to endure an undue proportion of poverty, 143; a 
wrong appreciation of their powers circumscribe their 
means of employment, 144; generally deficient in meth- 
od, 144; want accuracy, 144; new sources of employ- 
ment might be opened to them, 145; government not fit 
for them, 145 ; more slavish to small conventionalities 
than men, 234. 

World, the, its advancement depends upon the use of 
small balances of advantage over disadvantage, 13; no 
one discovery resuscitates it, 13 ; its want of ingenuity 
and arrangement in not providing employment for its 
unemployed, 145 ; always correcting its opinions, 175. 

World, we are in the thick of one of misunderstanding, 
haste, blindness, passion, indolence, and private inter- 
est, 183. 

Workwomen, small wages of, 100. 

Would-be teachers, suggestions to, 25. 

Writer, a, often requires less to make things logically clear 
to men, than to put them into the mood he wishes to 
have them in, 115. 

Y. 

Youth, beauty of, 114; modern, cause of their shyness and 

coldness, 233. 
Young talent not made just use of, 231. 



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lyle's influence can hardly be said to pass outside the limits of the English tongue ; 
but George Sand's power has stamped itself deeply into the mind, the morals, the 
manners, the very legislation of every civilized country in the world." — Justin 
McCarthy, in the " Galaxy." 



GOETHE'S HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. Translated 

from the German By Ellen Frothingham. i vol. i6mo, with frontis- 
piece. Cloth, neat. Price jSi.oo. 

" Miss Frothingham's translation is something to be glad of: it lends itself 
kindly to perusal, and it presents Goethe's charming poem in the metre of the 
original. ... It is not a poem which could be profitably used in an argument for 
the enlargement of the sphere of woman : it teaches her subjection, indeed, from the 
lips of a beautiful girl, which are always so fatally convincing ; but it has its charm, 
nevertheless, and will serve at least for an agreeable picture of an age when the 
ideal woman was a creature around which grew the beauty and comfort and security 
of home." — Atlantic Hfonthly. 

"The poem itself is bewitching. Of the same metre as Longfellow's 'Evan- 
geline,' its sweet and measured cadences carr\' the reader onward vknt>' a real pleasure 
as he becomes more and more absorbed in this descriptive wooing song. Parts of 
it we have read for the second time, and have promised ourselves the pleasure of 
another reading. It is a sweet volume to read aloud in a select circle of intelligent 
friends. " — Providence Press. 

THE LOVERS OF GUDRUN. A Poem. By William 

Morris. With Frontispiece from design by Billings, i vol. i6mo, neatly 
bound in cloth. Price Ji.oo. 

Reprinted from "The Earthly Paradise " for the convenience of summer tour- 
ists, this charming poem cannot fail to be in demand. 

" William Morris is assuredly the most original poet whom these days have 
seen, if not also in many respects the most remarkable. He sings simply because 
he lo\es to sing, like the wood-thrush in the deepening shadows of the summer 
even." — Pntnani's Jifas^azine. 

" Strange, sweet, and fascinating poem. He leads us with the power of an 
enchanter. Only one influence can produce such effects: the influence of genius 
and genuine inspiration." — The Galaxy. 

Published by ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston. 



143, Washington Street, Bostoh, 
Summer, 1870. 

MESSRS. ROBERTS BROTHERS' 
GENERAL LIST OF WORKS. 

4S" The Books in this List, unless otherwise specified, are bound in 
Cloth. All of our Publications mailed, post-paid, on receipt of price. 



ALCOTT (LOUISA M.). Little Women; or, Meg, Jo, Beth 
and Amy. With lUuBtrations. Two volumes, 16mo. $3.00. 

Hospital Sketches and Camp and Fireside Stories. 

With Illustrations. 16mo. $1.50. 

An Old-Fashioned Girl. With Illustrations. 16mo. 

$1.50. 

ALCOTT (A. BRONSON). Tablets. 16mo. $1.50. 
ALGER (W. R.). The Poetry of the Orient. 16mo. $1.75. 

A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life. 

8vo. $3.50. 

The Solitudes of Nature and of Man ; or, The Loneli- 

ness of Human Life. 16mo. $2.00. 

The Friendships of Women. 16mo. $2.00. 

Prayers offered in the Massachusetts House of Repre- 

sentatives during the Session of 1868. 16mo. $1.50. 

ANGELS (THE) OF HEAVEN. Meditations on the Records 
of An£;olic Visitation and Ministry contained in Scripture. With 
12 Photographs. Small 4to. $6.00. 

AUERBACH (BERTIIOLD). On the Heights. 16ms. $2.00. 

Villa Eden : The Country-House on the Rhine. 8vo. 

$2.00. 

Edelweiss. 16mo. $1.00. 

German Tales. 16mo. $1.00. 



BALLANTYNE (R. M.). Gascoyne, the Sandal -Wood 

Trader. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50. 



LIST OF WORKS 



BARING-GOULD (S.). Curious Myths of the Middle Ages. 
16nio. $1.50. 

BARNES (WM.). Rural Poems, With 12 full-page Illus- 
trations. Square 16mo. Bevelled cloth, gilt edges. $2.50. 
Handy Volume Edition, $1.25. 

BLACKFORD (MRS.). The Scottish Orphans; and Arthur 
Monteith. Illustrated. 16mo. 75 cents. 

BROOKS (CHARLES T.). The Layman's Breviary; or, 

Meditations for Every Day in the Year. From the Gorman of 
Leopold Schefer. 16mo. $2.50. A cheaper edition, $1.60 

BUCHANAN'S (ROBERT) POEMS. 16mo. $1.75. 

BURNAND (F. C). Happy Thoughts. IGmo. $1.00. 

BUTLER (SAMUEL). Hudibras. With Notes, a Life of the 
Author, and Illustrations. 32mo. $1.25. 

BUONAPARTE (NAPOLEON). Table Talk and Opinions 

of. 18mo. $1.25. 

CERVANTES (MIGUEL DE). The Adventures of Don 
Quixote De La Mancha. Translated by Charles Jarvis. Illus- 
trated. Small Quarto. $8.00. 

COWLEY (ABRAHAM). Essays. With Life by the Editor, 
Notes and Illustrations by Dr. Hurd, and others. 18mo. $1.25. 

DALTON (WM.). The Tiger Prince; or, Adventures in the 
Wilds of Abyssinia. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50. 

DAY (THOMAS). Sandfoi-d and Merton. Illus'd. 16mo. $1.25. 

DAVY (SIR H.) Consolations in Travel ; or, The Last Days of 
a Philosopher. 16mo. $1.50. 



Salmonia ; or, Days of Fly -Fishing. 16mo. $1.50. 



EDWARDS (M. BETHAM). Doctor Jacob. A Novel. $1.00. 

FITZGERALD (PERCY). Autobiography of a Small Boy. 
Illustrated. 16mo. $2.00. 

FROLICH (L.). Picture-Book, Mischievous Joe, Foolish Zoe, 
Boasting Hector. The Text by their Mammas; the Designs by L. 
FaoLlCH. Small quarto. $2'.00. 

GOETHE'S Hermann and Dorothea. Translated by Ellen 
Frothingham. Illustrated. Thin 8vo. $2.00. 



PUBLISHED BY ROBERTS BROTHERS. 



GRAY'S (DAVID) POEMS. With an Introductory Notice by 
Lord noughton, Memoir of the Author, aud Filial Memorials, 
16mo. $1.50. 

GEEENWELL (DORA). Carmina Crucis. 16mo. f 1.50. 

GRISET'S (ERNEST) GROTESQUES ; or, Jokes Drawn on 
Wood. With Rhymes by Tom Hood. One hundred quaint de- 
eigus. Small quarto. $3.75. 

HAMERTON (PHILIP G.). A Painter's Camp. Book I.: 
In England. Book n. : In Scotland. Book III.. In France. 
16mo. $1.50. 

HEDGE (P. IL). The Primeval World of Hebrew Tradition 

16mo. $1.50. 

HELPS (ARTHUR). Realmah. 16mo. $2.00 

Casimir Maremma. 16mo. $2.00. 

HELEN AND HER COUSINS ; or, Two Months at Ashfield 
Rectory. 18mo. 60 cents. 

HE/iVEN (THE) SERIES. IGmo. Each, $1.25. 

Ueaved orn Dome. We have no Saviour but Jesus, and no 

Dome but Heaven. 
Meet for IIeaven. A State of Grace upon Earth the only 

Preparation for a State of Glory in IIeaven. 
Life in Heaven. There Faith is changed into Sight, and Hope 

is passed into Blissful Fruition. 

HOPE (A. R.). A Book about Dominies. 16mo. $1.25 

A Book about Boys. IGmo. $1.25. 

HOWITT (MARY). Fireside Tales. In Prose and Verse. 
]6mo. 75 cents. 

HUNT (LEIGH). The Book of the Sonnet. 2 vols. $3.00. 

The Seer; or. Common Places Refreshed. 2 vols. 

16mo. $3.00. 



A Day bv the Fire, and other P.apers hitherto uncol- 
lected. Edited by " Tom Folio." 16mo. $1.50. 



LIST OF WORKS 



INGELOW'S (JEAN) POEMS. 2 vols. 16mo. $3.50. 

2 vols. 32mo. $3.00. 

1 vol. 16mo. Cabinet Edition. $2.25. 

Illustrated Edition. 8vo. $12.00. 

80NGS OF Seven. Illustrated. 8vo. $5.00. 

PROSE. Studies for Stories. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50. 

tSToniES Told to a Child. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.25. 
A Sister's Bve-IIouks. Illustrated. 16rao. $1.25. 
MopsA THE Fairv. a Story. Illustrated. lOrao. $1.25. 
Poor Matt; or, The Clouded Intellect. 18mo. 60 cents. 



TNGRAHAM'S (J. n.) WOEKS. 3 vols. 12mo. Each, $2. 

The Prince or the IIouse of David; or, Three Years in the 
Holy City. 

The Pillar of Fire; or, Israel in Bondage. 

The Throne of David, — from the Consecr.ation of the Shep- 
herd of Bethlehem to the Rebellion of Prince Absalom. 

•'JANUS." The Pope and the Council. Authorized Transla- 
tion from the German. 16mo. $1.50. 

JOINVILLE (THE SIRE De). Saint Louis, King of France. 
Translated by James Hutton. 18mo. $1.25. 

LAMB (CHARLES). A Memoir. By Barry Cornwall. 

16mo. $1.75. 

LETTERS EVERYWHERE. Stories and Rhymes for Chil- 
dren. 28 Illustrations. Square 8vo. $3.00. 

LIBRARY OF EXEMPLARY WOMEN. 6 vols. 12mo. 

Each, $2.00. 

Memoirs and Correspondence of Madame Recamier. 
Translated and Edited by Miss Li'Yster. 

The Friendships of Women. By Uev. W. R. Alger. 

Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine. By Count de 
Falloux. Translated by Miss Preston. 

Sai»te-Beuve's Portraits of Celebrated Women. Trans- 
lated by Miss Preston. 

The Letters of Madame de 8^vign]S. Edited, with a Me- 
moir, by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. 

The Letters of Lady Mary Wortley Montagc. Edited, 
with a Memoir, by Mrs. Sarah J. Hale, 

LXJYSTER (I. M.). Miss Lily's Voyage Round the World. 
Undertaken in company with her two cousins, Masters Pau". and 
Toto, and Little Peter. Translated from the French by Miss liUy- 
Bter. 48 designs by Lorenz Frolich. 8vo. $3.50. 

The Little Gypsy. Translated from the French of Eli 

Sauvage, by Miss Luyster. Illustrated. Square 12mo. $1.50. 



PUBLISHED BT ROBERTS BROTHERS. 



LYTTON'S (BULWER) DRAMAS AND POEMS. Con- 
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Blue and Gold. $1.25. 

MACGREGOR (JOHN). A Thousand Miles in the Rob Roy 
Canoe ; or, Rivers and Lakes of Europe. Map and Illustrations. 
16mo. $2.50. 



The Rob Roy on the Baltic : The Narrative of the Rob 

Eoy Canoe, on Lakes and Rivers of Sweden, Denmark, Norway, 
and on the Baltic and North Seas. Illustrated. 16mo. $2.50. 

The Voyasje Alone in the Yawl "Rob Roy," from 

London to Paris, and back by Havre, the Isle of Wight, South 
Coast, etc. 16mo. $2.50. 

MARRYATT (CAPT.). The Privateersman, Adventures by 
Sea and Land. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.50. 

MAX (LITTLE). With fifteen Etchings, by Rudolf Geiss- 
I.ER. 4to. $2.50. 

MORRIS (WILLIAM). The Earthly Paradise. Parts I. 
and II. Spring and Summer periods. Crown 8vo., $3.00. 16mo. 
$2.25. 

• The Earthly Paradise. Part III. Autumn period. 

Crown 8vo., $3.00. ]6mo., $2.25. 

The Earthly Paradise. Part IV. Winter period. (In 

preparation.) 

The Life and Death of Jason. A Poem. 16mo. $L50. 



MOUNTAIN ADVENTURES in the various Countries of the 
World. Selected from the Narratives of Celebrated Travellers. 
Illustrations. 12mo. $2.50. 

NEAL (JOHN). Wandering Recollections of a Somewhat 
Busy Life. An Autobiography. 16mo. $2.00. 

— Great Mysteries and Little Plagues. A Story-book for 

Young and Old. 16mo. $1.25. 

PALGRAVE (F. T.). The Five Days' Entertainments at 
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8vo. $4.00. 

PARABLES (THE) OF OUR LORD. With lUustrations 
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LIST OF WORKS 



PARKER (JOSEPH). Ecce Deus : Essays on the Life and 
Doctriue of .Jesus Christ. With. ControTersial Notes on '• Ecce Homo." 
16mo. $1.60 

PAUL PRESTON'S VOYAGES, Travels and Remarkable 

Adventures. Illustrated. 16mo. $1,25. 

PENNIMAN (MAJOR). The Tanner Boy. A Life of Gen- 
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POPULAR FAIRY TALES. Containing the choicest and best 
known Fairy Stories. Illustrated. 2 vols. 16mo. Each, S61.25. 

PELLICO (SILVIO). My Prisons. Memoirs of Silvio Pel- 
Lico. With an Introduction by Epes Sargent. 12mo. $3.50. A 
cheaper edition, $1.75. 

PLETSCH (OSCAR). Little Lasses and Lads. Colored lUus- 

trations. lloyal 8vo. $3.50. 

PRENTISS (E.J. Nidworth and his Three Magic "Wands, 16mo. 
$1.25. 

PUTNAM (E. T. H.). Where is the City? The experience of 

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denborgians, Spiritualists, Universalists, and Unitarians. 16mo. $1.50. 

PUNSHON (W. MORLEY). The Prodigal Son. Four Dis- 
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(Paper covers, 25 cents.) 

ROUND (A) OF DAYS. Described in Forty Original Poems 
by some of our most celebrated poets, and in Seventy Pictures by 
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ROSSETTI'S (C. G.) POEMS. With Four Designs by D. G. 
RossKTTi. 16mo. $1.75. 

ROSSETTI'S (DANTE GABRIEL) POEMS. 16mo. $L50. 

SAND (GEORGE). Mauprat. A Novel. Translated by Vir- 
ginia Vaughan. 16mo. $1.50 



Antonia. A Novel. Translated by Virginia Vaughan. 

16mo. $1.50. 

Monsieur Sylvestre. A Novel. Translated by Francis 

G. Shaw. 16mo. $1.50. 

SARGENT (EPES). The Woman who Dared. A Poem. 16mo. 

$1.50. 

PLANCHETTE ; or, The Despair of Science. Being a 

fuU account of Modem Spiritualism. 16mo. $1.25. 



8 PUBLISHED BY R OBER TS BR O THERS. 



SCHEFER (LEOPOLD). The Layman's Breviary. A Selec- 
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SCHILLEE'S LAY OF THE BELL. Translated by Bul- 
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(SEELEY, J. R.?). Ecce Homo. A Survey of the Life and 
Work of Jesus Christ. 16mo. $1.50, 

SHAKESPEARE'S WORKS. The Globe Edition. With all 

the Poems and a Glossary. 16mo. $2.00. 

SHAKESPEARE'S MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM. With 
24 Silhouette Illustrations by P. Konewka. Royal 8vo. $5.00. 

SHENSTONE (WILLIAM). Essays on Men and Manners. 

16mo. $1.25. 

STEINMETZ (A.). Sunshine and Showers : Their Influences 
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8vo. 'With Illustrations. $3.00. 

SWAIN'S (CHARLES) POEMS. 32mo. fL25. 

SWETCHINE'S (MADAME) WRITINGS. Edited by the 
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TIME'S (JOHN). Eccentricities of the Animal Creation. 

With Eight Engravings. 12mo. $2.50. 

TRENCH (W. S.). Realities of Irish Life. 16mo. $L00. 

TYTLER (SARAH). Sweet Counsel. A Book for Girls. 

16mo. $1.60. 

WALFORD (E.). The Story of the Chevalier Bayard. I8mo. 
$1.25. 

WOMEN (THE) OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. Medita- 

tions on some Traits of Feminine Characters recorded in Sacred 
History. With Twelve Photographs. Small 4to. $6.00. 

YONGE (MISS). The Pigeon Pie. A Tale of Roundhead 
Times. 16mo. $1.25. 



Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications are for sale by 
all Booksellers and News Dealers, and will be mailed, post- 
paid, on receipt of the price, by the Publishers. 



Leigh Hunt's 



W^riti?io;s, 

o 



THE SEER ; or, Commonplaces Refreshed. 
"Love adds a precious '■"eing to the eje." — Shake- 
speare. In two volumes. i6mo. Cloth, gilt top. 
Price, $3.00. 

Contents of " The Seer." 



Pleasure ; On a Pebble ; Spring ; 
Color ; Windows ; Windows, con- 
sidered from inside ; A Flower for 
your Window ; A Word on Early- 
Rising ; Breakfast in Summer ; Anac- 
reon ; The Wrong Sides of Scholar- 
ship and No Scholarship ; Cricket ; 
A Dusty Day ; Bricklayers, and An 
Old Book ; A Rainy Day ; The East 
Wind ; Strawberries ; The Waiter : 
The Butcher; A Pinch of Snuff; 
Wordsworth and Milton ; Specimens 
of Chaucer ; Peter Wilkins and the 
Flying Woman ; English and French 
Females ; English Male Costume ; 
English Women Vindicated ; Sunday 
in London ; Sunday in the Suburbs ; 
A Human Being and a Crowd; The 



Cat by the Fire ; Put up a Picture in 
your Room ; A Gentleman-Saint ; 
The Eve of St. Agnes; A "Now," 
descriptive of a cold day ; Ice, with 
Poets upon it; The Piano-forte; 
Why Sweet Music produces Sadness ; 
Dancing and Dancers ; Twelfth 
Night; Rules in Making Presents; 
Romance of Commonplace ; Aniiable- 
ness Superior to Common Intellect; 
Life After Death, — Belief in Spirits ; 
On Death and Burial ; On Washer- 
women ; The Nightmare ; The Flor- 
entine Lovers ; Rhyme and Reason ; 
Vicissitudes of a Lecture ; The For- 
tunes of Genius; Poets' Houses; 
A Journey by Coach ; Inexhaustibility 
of the Subject of Christmas. 



"'The Seer' is a capital companion in the traveller's pocket, and by the 
bachelor's coffee-cup, and whenever one wishes a nibble at the good things of 
the library at home. No one can behold the face of Nature without finduig a 
smile upon it, if he looks there through the eyes of 'The Seer.' " — Boston 
Daily A dvertUer, 

" A collection of delicious essays, thoroughly imbued with the characteristics 
of the writer's genius and manner, and on topics especially calculated to bring 
out all the charms of his genial spirit and develop all the niceties of his fluent 
diction, and worthy of being domesticated among those choice family books 
which while away leisure hours with agreeable thoughts and fancies." — 
E. P. Whipple. 

" ' The Seer ' is one of the best specimens of the modem essayist's dealing 
with the minor pleasures and domestic philosophy of life, and is a capital anti- 
dote for the too exciting books of the hour ; it lures us to musing, and what 
Hazlitt calls 'reposing on our sensations.' " — H. T. Tuckerman. 



Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, 

Boston. 



Leigh Hunt's Writings, 



THE BOOK OF THE SONNET. Compris- 
ing an Essayon the Cultivation, History, and Varieties' 
of the species of poem called the Sonnet, with a Selec- 
tion of English Sonnets, now first published from the 
original MSS. of Leigh Hunt. An Essay on American 
Sonnets and Sonneteers, with a Selection of Sonnets, 
by S. Adams jL>ee. In two volumes. i6mo. Cloth, 
gilt top. Price, $3.00. 

"The genuine aroma of literature abounds in every page of Leigh Hunt'3 
delicious Essay on the Sonnet. His mind shows itself imbued with a rich 
knowledge of his subject, and this, illumined by the evidence of a thorough and 
unaffected liking tor it, makes him m^i^s^WA^" —London Saturday Review. 

" As a collection of Sonnets, it is not only the fullest ever made, but by far 
the best, even excelling the dainty little collection by Dyce, . . . and Hunt's 
exhaustive and every way admirable introductory essay is, after all, much the 
best part of the work. Its pages are steeped in thoughtful scholarship on this 
special theme, and sparkle with genial and veracious criticism." — R. H. Stod- 
dard. 

"A greater verbal epicurean than Leigh Hunt never lived. He luxuriated 
over niceties of expression and revelled in a delicious image or apt phrases ; he 
was always seeking the beautiful in neglected fields of literature ; and to renew 
his acquaintance with the memorable sonnets of Italian and English poets was 
simply a labor of love. He therefore wrote an essay giving the history of the 
sonnet, and defining its conditions and possibilities, expatiated on the special 
merits of each renowned writer in this sphere, and indicated the most striking 
examples of success in artistic and effective construction or eloquent feeling as 
thus embodied and expressed." — H. T. Tiicker^nan. 

" Whether Leigh Hunt was a man of genius, or only of surpassing talent, 
is a question which we willingly leave to the critics who find tweedledee differ- 
ent from tweedledum in kind as well as degree. We are content with the fact 
that he has some virtue which makes us read every book of his we open, and 
which leaves us more his friend at the end than we were before. Indeed, it 
would be hard not to love so cheerful and kindly a soul, even if his art were 
ever less than charming. But literature seems to have always been a gay sci- 
ence with him. We never see his Muse as the harsh step-mother she really 
was : we are made to think her a gentle liege-lady, served in the airiest spirit of 
chivalric devotion ; and in the Essay in this ' Book of the Sonnet ' her aspect 
is as sunny as any the poet has ever shown us. 

" The Essay is printed for the first time, and it was written in Hunt's ol« 
age ; but it is full of light-heartedness, and belongs in feeling to a period a' 
least as early as that which produced the ' Stories from the Italian Poets.' It 
is one of those studies in which he was always happy, for it keeps him chiefly 
in Italy; and when it takes him from Italy, it only brings him into the Italian 
air of English sonnetry, — a sort of soft Devonshire coast, bordering the rug- 
geder native poetry on the south." — IV. D. Howells, in Atlantic Monthly. 



Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers- 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, 

Bostout 



Jean Ingelow's Prose Story Books. 

In 4 vols. 16mo, uniformly bound. 



STUDIES FOR STORIES FROM GIRLS' LIVES. Illus- 
trated, Price, $1.50. 

" A rare source of delight for all who can find pleasure in really good works of 
prose fiction. . . . They are prose poems, carefully meditated, and exquisitely 
touched in by a teacher ready to sympathize with every joy and sorrow." — 
Athenceutn. 

STORIES TOLD TO A CHILD. Illustrated. Price, $L25. 

" This is one of the most charming juvenile books ever laid on our table. 
Jeanlngelow, the noble English poet, second only to Mrs. Browning, bends ea.^ily 
and gracefully from the heights of thouiiht and fine imagination to commune 
with the minds and hearts of children ; to sympathize with their little joys and 
Borrows; to feel for their temptations. She is a safe guide for the little pilgrims; 
for her paths, though ' paths of pleasantness,' lead straight upward." — Grace 
Greenwood in '■'■The Little Pilgrim." 

A SISTER'S BYE-HOURS. Illustrated. Price, $L25. 

•' Seven short stories of domestic life by one of the most popular of the young 
authors of the day, — an author who has her heart in what she writes, — Jean 
Ingelow. And there is heart in these stories, and healthy moral lessons, too. 
They are written in the author's most graceful and affecting style, will be read 
with real pleasure, and, when read, will leave more than momentary impressions." 
— Brooklyn Union. 

MOPSA THE FAIRY. A Story. With Eight Illustrations. 
Price, $1.25. 

"Miss Ingelow is, to our mind, the most charming of all living writers for 
children, and ' Mop.<a ' alone ought to give her a kind of pre-emptive right to the 
love and gratitude of our young folks. It requires genius to conceive a purely 
imaginary work which must of necessity deal with the supernatural, without 
running into a mere riot of fantastic absurdity ; but gtuius Miss Ingelow has, 
and the story of Jack is as careless and joyous, but as delicate, as a picture of 
childhood. 

" The young people should be grateful to Jean Ingelow and those other noble 
writers, who, in our day, have taken upon themselves the task of supplying them 
with literature, if for no other reason, that these writers have saved them from 
the ineffable didacticism which, till within the last few years, was considered the 
only food fit for the youthful mind." — Eclectic. 

Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, by the Publishers. 

ROBERTS BROTHERS, Boston 



GEORGE SAND'S NOVELS. 



I. MAUPRAT. Translated by Virginia Vaughan. 
n. ANTONIA. Translated by Virginia Vaughan. 

III. MONSIEUR SYLVESTRE. Translated by Francis 

George Shaw. 

IV. L'HOMME DE NEIGE. (The Man of Snow.) Translated 

by Virginia Vaughan. 

(others in preparation.) 

A standard Library Edition, unifirrmly bound, in neat 16oto volumes. Each 
volume sold separottly. Price $1.50. 



SOME NOTICES OF "MAUPRAT." 

"An admirable translation. As to 'Mauprat,' with which novel Roberts 
Brothers introduce the first of French novelists to the American public, if there 
were any doubts as to George Sand's power, it would for ever set them at rest. 
. . . The object of the story is to show how, by her (Edmee's) noble nature, he 
(Mauprat) is subsequently transformed from a brute to a man ; his sensual pas- 
sion to a pure and holy love." — Harper's Monthly. 

" The excellence of Georjje .*and, as we understand it, lies in her comprehen- 
sion of the primitive elements of mankind. She lias conquered her way into the 
human heart, and wliether it is at peace or at war, is the same to her ; for she is 
mistress of all its moods. No woman before ever painted the passions and the 
emotions with such force and fidelity, and with such consummate art. Whatever 
else she may be, she is alwa}S an artist. . . . Love is the key-note of ' Mauprat,' 
— love, and what it can accomplish in taming an otherwise untamable spirit. 
The hero, Bernard Mauprat, grows up with his uncles, who are practically ban- 
dits, as was not uncommon with men of their class, in the provinces, betore the 
breaking out of tlie Kreuch Revolution He is a young savage, of whom the best 
that can be said is, that he is only less wicked than his relatives, because he has 
somewhere within him a sense of generosity and honor, to which they are entire 
strangers. To sting this .sense into activity, to detect the makings of a man in this 
brute, to make tliis brute into a man, is the difficult problem, which is worked 
out by love, — the love of Bernard for his cousin Ediiiee and hers for him, — the 
love of two strong, pa-s.sionate, noble natures, locked in a life-and-death struggle, 
in which the man is finally overcome by the unconquerable strength of woman- 
hood. Only a great writer could liave described such a struggle, and only a great 
artist could have kept it within allowable limits. This George Sand has done, we 
thiuk ; for her portrait of Bernard is vigorous without being coarse, and her situ- 
ations are strong without being dangerous. Such, at least, is the impression we 
have received from reading ' Mauprat,' which, besides being an admirable study 
of character, is also a fine picture of French provincial life and manners." — Put- 
nam^ s Monthly. 

" Huberts Brothers propose to publish a series of translations of George 
Sand's better novels. We can hardly say that all are worth appearing in English ; 
but it is certain that the ' better ' list will comprise a good many which are worth 
translating, and among these is ' Mauprat,' — tliough by no me.ans the best of 
them. Written to show the possibility of constancy in man, a love inspired be- 
fore and continuing through marriage, it is itself a contradiction to a good uiauy 
of the popular notions respecting the autlior, — who is generally supposed to be 
as indifferent to the sanctities of the marriage relation as was her celebrated an- 
cestor, .\ugustus of Saxony. . . . The translation is admirable. It is seldom that 
one reads such good English in a work translated from any language. The new 
series is inaugurated in the best possible way, under the hands of Miss Vaughan, 
and we trust that she may have a great deal to do with its continuance. It 
is not every one who cau read French who can write English so well." — Old 
and New. 



Sold everywhere. Mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the advertised price, 
hij the Puhlishrrs, 

ROBERTS RROTHERS, Bo.-^iox. 



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